Lost Templar in Skyhold
by barbex
Summary: Leaving Kirkwall behind, Carver Hawke soon finds finds himself in a hot new mess with a glowing green mark on his hand. Apparently he is the Inquisitor now? What will Merrill think of all that? Or his sisters?
1. Chapter 1

_This is a story that started with a conversation about Carver Hawke and "what if he becomes the Inquisitor?" and now we're here. I hope you enjoy our grumpy baby bird just as much as me!_

* * *

Sometimes, big events start with small little words.

"Seeker Pentaghast has asked me to join her, to serve under her to form a new Inquisition." Cullen drops that on him just as he and Carver are sitting on the remains of the chantry ruin in the middle of Kirkwall. They often take their supper here, on a boulder that used to be part of the chantry's gate.

"So you're just gonna leave?" Carver shouts, his quick temper flaring up. The stale bread with the rockhard cheese hovers halfway between his mouth and quite frankly the ground because it looks inedible.

"Why stay?" Cullen stretches out his arm to encompass the remains of destruction around them. "We have no chantry, the Circle of Kirkwall is deserted, the few mages who are left would be better off living in the Hanged Man than on the Gallows. And I'm..." He slumps forward, resting his head in his hands. "I'm tired of pretending that we still do good here."

Carver can't argue with that. As if the destruction of the chantry had been a signal to every vile urge and bad temper in the templars, his comrades had taken to the streets in a rampage that Cullen and him had barely been able to put a stop to. Ever since then, they've lost handful of templars every day. They just packed up and left.

"There's what? Twenty templars left?" Cullen asks.

"At the most." Carver lets out a snort. "I haven't counted since yesterday." He finally gives up on the bread and throws it to a couple of mice who immediately start fighting over the cheese. It's like the city brings out the worst in every creature.

"Just, let them take a year's supply of lyrium and be on their way. Maybe another circle needs them. I'm... I'm just so tired." Cullen, former Knight Captain, now Knight Commander of the Kirkwall Templar Order, sighs. "Seeker Pentaghast wants to end this war, that at least is a noble cause to fight for."

"And what about me?" Carver blurts out. It's not that he particularly liked the chantry and the Gallows but at least he felt like he did something important. He protected his sisters and their friends. In a way he also protected the apostate mage Anders but he doesn't dwell on that thought, he rather lingers a bit on another apostate mage, Merrill.

"You're coming with me of course," Cullen says.

Carver quickly shoves all thoughts of Merrill's soft lips aside and stares at Cullen. "I'm coming with you? Says who? I'd rather stay here, I can still help Aveline. I might even join the city guard." And he would stay close to Merrill.

"City Guard doesn't have Lyrium."

"I'll think of something, Varric will know where to get it."

"Last I heard, Varric is also going to accompany the Seeker."

"Really? Never would have thought he'd leave Kirkwall."

Cullen grins. "I don't think it's all that voluntarily."

"That Seeker must be very impressive," Carver says "Some other dwarf then, Varric isn't the only one."

Cullen sighs once more and straightens. "As a matter of fact, the Seeker has asked for you specifically."

"Why me? Oh, wait, it's not about me, is it?" Carver scowls at him, resentment at forever being the second Hawke biting in his chest. "They're looking for Marian because of the chantry explosion. Does she think I'm going to just hand my sister over to her prosecution?"

Cullen's hand rubs his neck in that familiar gesture when he has to say something that he doesn't really want to say. "It seems that... the Inquisition needs a leader, the Inquisitor. They wanted the Warden-Commander at first but can't find them. So now, Seeker Pentaghast is looking for..." He stops, rubbing his temples as if the next sentence physically pains him. "She's looking for the Champion of Kirkwall to lead the Inquisition."

"Oh no," Carver whispers to himself. "Marian?" he says louder. "Are you serious? Did you tell her what kind of person my sister is?"

"The constant headache during my time as the Knight Captain? Yes I told her."

"And she still...?"

Cullen shrugs, his whole body a sign of defeat. "She thinks the Champion of Kirkwall is a marvelous hero who will inspire people to follow her."

"That's a terrible idea," Carver says quietly. "Very, very not good, terrible idea."


	2. Chapter 2

_Elven language:_  
 _Ma vhenan: My heart; a term of endearment._  
 _Var lath vir suledin: Our love will endure._

* * *

"So we're not the Inquisition yet?" Carver stretches his legs and tries to ignore the pain in his thigh muscles. He hates riding horses.

Seeker Pentaghast makes a noise he's been hearing often lately, a kind of throaty harumph that definitely doesn't mean anything positive. "The Divine will restore the Inquisition if she considers it to be necessary after the Conclave. I'm just presenting her the option."

"Mages and templars, finding a peaceful solution after all these years? Working together? I don't see that happening." Carver shakes his head. This fight, this war has been going on for years and no side is willing to understand the other.

"An inspiring leader could draw people together..." Cassandra says, almost to herself but it's enough to have Carver nearly explode.

"For the last time, I don't know where my sisters are, I don't know where any of the mages from Kirkwall are. And I'm pretty sure the Champion of Kirkwall is long forgotten." He glares at the Seeker until the woman nods and turns away.

"Maybe you're right," Seeker Pentaghast says, her nevarran accent sharpening her speech. "I might be clinging to a hope that is unfounded. But this war can not be won, not by anyone. The Inquisition is our last hope to have an institution outside of the two warring factions, to act as a mediator."

"The Inquisition will still be formed by former templars," Carver says before he can stop himself.

Cassandra Pentaghast throws him a look that makes Carver want to sink into the ground until he hits the Deep Roads. "My hope is that some of the moderate mages are willing to join the Inquisition as well."

Cullen rides up to Carver's side, murmuring not loud enough for the Seeker to hear, "Lots of hope we're working with here."

The path winds around the mountain they've been climbing for the past hour and before them the impressive building of the Temple Of Sacred Ashes appears. The yard in front of it is filled to the brim with people and animals of all kinds. Carver can even see a few halla holding up their majestic horns.

"The Dalish are here?"

"Divine Justinia extended her invitation to the Conclave to all people in Thedas," the Seeker says, "since everyone is affected by this war."

Carver scans the crowd, for a moment wondering if he will find Merrill here.

 _"I don't want to leave you," he says, not saying what he meant to say. That he loves her, that she's the most amazing person he knows, that he knows she isn't an evil bloodmage, just, well, a bloodmage, that he loves her so much that imagining not being around her turns his world grey. "I don't know how long I have to stay here but I want to protect you and..."_

 _"We can't stay here, you know it. It's time to go."_

 _"But you could stay with me, instead of going on that ship with Isabela."_

 _"I'll find you, ma vhenan." Merrill takes his hand and puts it against her cheek. "I'll find you again. Var lath vir suledin."_

He still doesn't know what that expression means. To him it meant farewell as Merrill climbed up the ramp to Isabela's ship. He could only wave once before Cullen and the Seeker called him back. They waited for him, his horse prancing on the reins, eyeing him suspiciously.

The very same horse is now busy ripping grass from the side of the path, no matter how much Carver pulls on the reins and digs his heels in its side. "Go, you stupid ass," he snarls at it.

Cullen, already halfway down the path, turns around, rides up to his side and smacks the horse on the back. The horse doesn't even lift its head, just starts walking, still ripping off grass.

"I hate horses," Carver mumbles to himself. He's staring down the steep path, now unobstructed by horsehead and feels nauseous. He looks at the sky instead, breathing in deeply.

 _"All plants have a story to tell, ma vhenan. You can smell it in the air." She looks up to him, her beautiful eyes deep enough to drown. "You probably think that's silly."_

"No," he says quietly to himself, the memory constricting his chest.

"What?" Cullen asks next to him.

"Nothing, just... nothing. So, what exactly are we going to do there at the Conclave?"

Cullen opens his mouth to speak but Seeker Pentaghast speaks first, without looking back to them. "You will just watch. You are not part of the templar order anymore and you do not speak for them or the Chantry."

"Wait, just me?" Carver asks. "Where will you be?"

"I have other duties to attend to," the Seeker says.

"Fine, I hope they have at least some food." Carver's horse has finally given up on the meager patches of grass and trots eagerly down towards the building, probably smelling the well stocked stables.

"Don't eat everything," Cullen says with a chuckle, "they might not be prepared for the appetite of a fereldan farmboy."

"I haven't seen a farm in years, you knobhead."

The Seeker stops her horse abruptly and Carver scrambles with the reins to bring his own horse to a halt. Not an easy feat as the damn animal seems to be convinced that good things await it down there.

"We leave you now," the Seeker says. "Commander Cullen and I will be back in a few days." She hands a thick piece of paper over to him. "This will ensure your placement as an observer on all discussions. Please be respectful. I expect a report."

"Yes, Seeker."

Cullen and the Seeker lead their horses up another path and soon disappear behind a massive rock formation. Carver's horse has enough of waiting and falls into a jog that almost shakes the teeth out of his mouth. He is only too happy to hand the beast over to the stable master.

Stepping out of the stable, awkwardly stretching his legs, he comes face to face with a halla and someone with a familiar accent calls out to him, "Watch it, shemlen!"

The majestic halla stares him down, its nostrils quivering and Carver takes a careful step backwards. The rider glides down from its back, a tall elf with brown skin, wearing the same green colors that Merrill always wore. The elf whispers something to the halla and then steps aside, letting the animal walk away. It doesn't hurry and walks as if it knows how impressive it looks.

"Won't he run away?" Carver wonders.

"He is a friend, he will come back. I do not force him."

His accent sounds so familiar, Carver wonders if he is from Merrill's clan. But how can he ask him about that? He knows precious little about Merrill's dalish life, doesn't even know what her clan is called.

How could that happen? How could he know so very little about her and her life?

Before he can dwell longer on those depressing thoughts, a chantry sister welcomes him to the Conclave and gestures to him to step inside. The tall elf follows him, scowling at the chantry sister.

Carver acknowledges him with a nod and slows down so that he doesn't walk behind him.

"Are you part of a delegation?" the elf asks.

"No, I'm just here to observe." Carver stops in front of the statue of Andraste, quickly bowing his head in front of her. Then he turns to the elf, extending his hand. "My name is Carver."

"Siljan." He takes Carver's hand and studies him with quick, dark eyes. "Where are you from?"

"I've lived in Kirkwall the last few years."

"I've been near Kirkwall, but I avoided entering the city."

"That was probably wise," Carver says with a sigh, "Can't really recommend the city, it's a cesspool, especially now, after the chantry explosion."

Siljan narrows his eyes. "That's a templar armor you're hiding under that coat."

Carver looks down on his chest and pulls the coat over the emblem on his breastplate. "Left the order, took the armor with me."

"But you were a templar when the mage blew up the mage prison?"

"Mage prison? It was the chantry, not a prison."

Siljan looks around, taking in the majestic arches, the lavish decorations and masses of candles. "So it was a place like this?"

"Yes."

"Why destroy a temple to your gods if mages are imprisoned elsewhere?" Siljan looks critically at the statue of Andraste.

"It was a symbol, I guess," Carver says with a shrug. "Of the oppression."

Siljan nods thoughtfully "That makes sense."

"Does it?" Carver looks at him in surprise.

"It may have been the templars, who hunted us down, but it was the Chantry who told them that it was the right thing to do."

Carver feels his cheeks flush red. "I'm sorry."

Siljan looks at him, a smile pulling at his lips. "It was a long time ago. But it's still a useful bit of information to make templars feel uncomfortable."

Carver snorts out loudly, earning a critical look from a chantry sister. He turns his back to her and grins at Siljan. "Luckily, I'm not a templar anymore."

"Lucky indeed." He looks down to his feet, lowering his voice as he speaks. "So, if not for the templars, who are you observing for?"

"I'm not sure I'm allowed to tell you."

"How curious."

A melody from a trumpet calls them to attention and to the admiring murmuring of the crowd, Divine Justinia steps out on the gallery overlooking the hall.

"Welcome, travellers. I welcome you to this Conclave of peace, where we want to end the war that costs so many lives among us."

She addresses the various groups down in the hall and welcomes them with kind words. The circle mages, clean and calm in shimmering robes, bow their heads to her. The rebel mages, in ragged clothes and armor, are less adoring, looking over their shoulders suspiciously, their staffs held at the ready.

Next she welcomes the templar delegation and Carver stretches his neck to get a good look, to see if he recognizes anybody. But most of them wear their helmets and he doesn't know the Knight Commanders at the front. The Divine also acknowledges the various ambassadors in the crowd, mages, dwarves and elves and thanks the Valo-Kas mercenaries for providing security.

Carver looks around, to see what kind of mercenary would be able to secure a volatile crowd as this and suddenly stands in front of a grey giant. He hardly ever has to look up to other people but the qunari in front of him looks down on him and scowls impressively.

Siljan pulls at his sleeve and frees him from the vicious stare. "Carver, a question."

"You have many questions," Carver says, walking to the side with him, away from the grey giant. "What is it?"

"I don't know much about you Shemlen and your groups. But I have met Grey Wardens and I wonder why they aren't attending this Conclave."

"That's a good question," Carver says, searching the crowd for the Warden emblem. "The Wardens like to keep out of politics."

"How fortunate for them to be able to do that," Siljan says with a bite in his voice.

"It's a load of ramshit if you ask me. Keeping out of politics while this war is going on."

Siljan snickers at that.

Up front, the Divine sings a chant to the Maker, asking for his blessing. Several attendees join in and fill the hall with the chant.

"Oh," Siljan says quietly. "I knew that Shemlen sing but I didn't know it could sound so nice."

"I know you dalish have beautiful songs." Carver doesn't know why he says this. Maybe because Siljan's accent reminds him so much of Merrill's.

He gets a curious look from Siljan. "Not many Shemlen get to hear our songs."

Carver is about to tell him about Merrill when the door at their back slams open and a group of armored men and women flood in, lead by a tall, hooded person.

"Oh, the Grey Wardens," he says, just as a red field of magic blasts out from the hooded figure and knocks him to the ground.

As he falls, he catches Siljan's eyes, wide in terror as he chokes on the magic holding him down. Carver tries to speak, even scream, but the magic is like a weight pressing down on his chest, trapping and strangling him.

He sees the Wardens climb up to the gallery, killing the chantry sisters in their path and then throwing the Divine over the railing into a magic field. A sickly green light stretches out from the hooded figure and grabs the screaming Divine. Carver raises his hand to do something, anything but then his world drowns in agony and noise as the sickly green light explodes around him.

"But the Wardens..." he whispers as his mind leaves him.

Sometimes, big events start with small little words.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's going on?"

"Run. Run, warn them!"

The world is green, dark in an unnatural way and an all too familiar sound makes him scramble to his feet. Hundreds of legs scurry over the ground and one look behind him confirms what he already knows - spiders, huge spiders, their many eyes blinking at him. He runs, stumbling over uneven, unfamiliar ground.

"Anybody here? Hello?" He keeps running, knowing deep in his heart that nothing around him is right. The light is wrong, the noises are hollow, the ground keeps shifting. But the spiders chase him up the hill, whatever hill it might be because it looks nothing like the Frostback Mountains they traveled through.

The green light gets brighter as he runs towards it and a white, glowing figure appears. It looks like the silhouette of a chantry sister, her head garp shining white on her head. She stretches out her hand and he runs up to grab it. But the ground shifts and he falls to his knees. The spiders are getting closer and he crawls towards the woman. Her light reaches his hand and his world explodes in white again.

He wakes in darkness, rough stones under his knees. His hands are bound in shackles, kept apart by a bar and his left hand burns.

The burning intensifies, startling him awake as he stares at a green fire engulfing his fist.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you right away?" a woman says behind him.

"What? Where am I?"

"Do you know what happened?" the woman says, her face still hidden in the shadow of a hood. She has a warm voice that barely hides the steel under it.

"Happened? Why am I shackled?" Carver tries to free his hands but the more he moves, the brighter his hand flares in green, pain burning up his arm. Hissing through his teeth, he holds up his hand. "What have you done to me?"

"Do you remember the explosion?"

"What explosion?"

"Our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, is dead."

This voice he knows and a look over his shoulder confirms that this is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. Her expression is even more grim than usual and her voice wavers with pain. "The Divine is dead. Everyone at the Conclave is dead. Except for you."

"But... all those people." There were hundreds of people in that great room, humans, dwarves, qunari, elves. Siljan, whose accent reminded him so much of Merrill. If Merrill had come with him...

Seeker Pentaghast grabs his cape and pulls her close to her face. "Why were you spared?"

"I don't know."

"What happened at the temple?"

Carver tries to recall the temple, the people watching the Divine, her speech, Siljan asking his questions and then — something pressed him down, the Divine trapped, then bathed in light, a poisonous green around him, spiders, a voice...

A burning pain bites into his hand as it flares up in sickly green light. It feels like holding his hand into burning coals and he cries out. "What is this?"

"We don't know," the hooded woman says.

"But it's killing you," Seeker Pentaghast says.

Carver stares at his hand. It seems to be a foreign object, like a parasite, that has attached itself to him and as he watches, green light crawls under his skin and up his arm like veins. "Please, get this off me." He looks at the hooded woman but she turns her head away.

The Seeker shakes his shoulder, making the manacles grate against the skin of his wrists. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I had nothing to do with it!"

The Seeker pulls her sword from her back and holds it to his throat, her eyes alight in anger. "I don't believe you!"

"Cassandra," the hooded woman says warmly, "we need him."

"Need me for what?"

"It will be easier to show you." Seeker Pentaghast pulls him up and removes the manacles. Instead, his wrists get bound with a rope, his green burning hand pressed against the other. Strangely, the green fire doesn't burn his other hand though, it even feels kind of cold.

The Seeker leads him outside. It's freezing, much colder than it was when they got here. There is even snow on the ground and Carver blinks against the blinding whiteness. But something makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and as he follows the line of sight of the other people, he stares into a green, glowing hole in the grey sky.

Like a maelstrom of green light and grey clouds, the hole in the sky eats the mountain under it, drawing up rocks and dust into its maw.

"What is that?" Carver watches a tree fly up and disappear into the terrifying hole.

"We call it the Breach." The Seeker turns to him and then stares down to his hand. "The explosion at the temple caused it. It's a massive rift into the world of demons and it's not the only rift, just the largest one. Unless we act, the Breach will grow until it swallows the world."

Carver hisses as the fire on his hand flares up in a green ball of light. The pain makes his knees buckle and he falls forward with a cry.

The Seeker gives him a pitiful look and kneels in front of him. "Your mark grows, each time the Breach expands. It is killing you."

"Get it off me!"

"We have an advisor who thinks that the mark on your hand can close the Breach."

"I see, so that's what you need me for." The pain recedes to a low hum and he flexes his fingers as the green flames lick around his knuckles. He gets up to follow the Seeker through the people. Someone throws a rotten apple at him and when he looks around, many seem to ready something to throw at him but they stop when the Seeker raises her hand.

"They grieve for the Most Holy and they need someone to blame."

"So, if it weren't for this," he holds up his bound hands, "you'd have thrown me to the wolves by now?"

The Seeker sighs. "There will be a trial, I can promise that much."

"Great, I have something to look forward to then," Carver grumbles under his breath. "Seeker, you know me, we travelled here together with Cullen Rutherford and you just happened to send me into the temple because you were busy, does that sound like a solid plan for someone who wants to blow up the Conclave?"

The Seeker makes that annoyed sound in her throat.

"Granted, Kirkwall may have a reputation for blowing things up," Carver continues but stops when the Seeker makes that disgusted noise again.

She turns to him and cuts his ropes. "Be careful. The Breach acts like a door to the Fade. Demons are pouring through it. We are fighting but there's too many of them."

Carver is glad that she mentioned that because the fire breathing demon that suddenly rises from the ground in front of him like a giant snail glowing coals would have been even more of a surprise otherwise.

"Maker's ass!" he yells out, jumping over a tipped over cart to get away from the thing. Even with his hands unbound, he is still defenseless and he grabs the next big piece of wood he can grab to hit the flaming monster with it. The wood goes up in flames as it hits the demon, hardly making an impact.

He looks around, desperate for anything to defend himself with. "Andraste's flaming arse," he swears under his breath. The Seeker is fighting two other demons, attacking them with her sword and shield, she can't help him. He scrambles back, throwing a damn apple at the creature when a glint catches his eye. Kicking at a pile of debris, he sees the pommel of a sword and grabs it.

The hot breath of the fiery sloth demon heats up his neck and he pulls the sword out and swings it around without even looking what kind it is. The sword is huge, even longer than the one he used to have. It cuts the demon in half and it falls with an inhuman shreek, its own flames consuming it.

In the sudden silence, he hears footsteps behind him and whirls around. The Seeker holds her sword to his chest and snarls, "Drop your weapon, now."

"Seeker, a demon attacked me."

"You don't need to fight."

"Seriously?" Carver spreads his arms, pointing at the amount of ridiculousness around him, with a hole in the sky and green glowing ghosts floating in the distance. Any moment now, another demon could pop out from the ground.

The Seeker lowers her sword and sighs. "You're right. I cannot protect you."

"You have to trust me."

"We'll see."

Carver makes sure that she isn't looking at him before he rolls his eyes.

"Where are we going?" he asks as they run up a hill towards the noise of a fight.

"The Forward Camp. They need our help." The Seeker runs ahead, the sun symbol on the shield on her back glowing white in the eerie green light.

The path leads up to a ruin but he can't tell how old it is, could be ancient, could be just recently destroyed. Under the grey sky, the snow reflecting the green light of the Breach, everything looks not quite real.

In the middle of what used to be a courtyard, humans and demons are fighting around a large green, crystalline object. It is floating, moving, changing shape in ways that don't look natural, turning from swirling lights to crystalline shards and back in the blink of an eye.

"Is that a rift?" Carver asks to empty air because the Seeker has already left his side and charges into battle. He hurries after her, readying the comically big sword. It feels not right in his hands but it cuts through the demons just fine. But as soon as he cuts one demon down, another comes through the rift, slithering towards him on flames.

Green fire crackles on his hand and he almost drops his sword as his very veins burn. A demon slithers towards him, twice his size and fast and he pulls on the weight of the sword but it's too much, his hand doesn't want to keep holding on and the fiery breath of the creature licks at his skin — a massive bolt hits the demon from the side, practically cutting it in half. It crumbles to the side and the weight of his sword is enough that he can skewer its head with just one hand.

Carver turns, looking for his saviour and he can't believe his eyes. "Varric?"

"Quick, before more come through!" an unfamiliar voice calls out and someone grabs his arm and raises it towards the sickly green crystalline shape. The green flames swirl around his hand, faster and brighter, turning into a rope of lightning stretching up to the rift. The air smells of molten metal. A buzzing fills his head as the lightning turns brighter and when it touches the rift, everything seems to freeze for a moment before the rift explodes in blinding light.

The buzzing in his ears stops abruptly, making him taste the silence. He stares at his hand and then at the man who held it up to the rift. "What did you do?"

"I did nothing, the credit is yours," the man says, a bald elf in rough, old clothing. He seems unassuming with his hunched shoulders, almost fragile, but he watches Carver's glowing hand with vigilant eyes.

"How did you know?"

The elf looks quite pleased with himself. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky, also caused that mark on your hand. I theorized that the mark could also reverse the energy of the rift and close it again."

"You theorized?" Carver bristles and for once it has nothing to do with the fire on his hand. "So you didn't _know_? My arm also could have turned into charcoal or maggots for all you know? "

Some of the self assurance leaves the elf's face. "I considered that to be not likely. "

"Not likely?" Carver turns around. "Varric, what in the blazes is going on? "

The dwarf grins widely. "Fancy that you should turn to me for guidance, as I'm merely a prisoner, just like you."

The Seeker glares at him. "I wanted you to tell your story to the Divine, clearly, that is no longer possible. I told you that you are free to go."

"And yet, here I am, lucky for you, considering current events." He strokes over his crossbow. "Bianca just saved our friend here and it looks like he became really important."

"The mark could close the Breach like it closed the rift," the Seeker says. "There is hope for us yet."

"And here I thought we'd be ass deep in demons forever." Varric shoulders his crossbow and comes to Carver's side.

"It seems," the Seeker says with an unusually soft voice, "that you hold the key to our salvation."

"My name is Solas," the bald elf says with a thin smile, "I'm glad to see you still live."

Varric grins at that. "What he means to say is, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'"

Carver is not ready to forgive the elf just yet. "That makes you an expert on my hand?"

The Seeker gestures towards the bald elf. "Solas is an apostate, well versed in such matters and the magic involved here."

"Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra." The elf, Solas, tears his gaze away from Carver's glowing hand and looks up to him. "My travels have allowed me to see much of the Fade, far more than any Circle mage. I offer all the help I can give."

Carver wishes for Bethany to be here. She would know how to talk to this elf, put a damper on his self assurance and his dismissal of Circle mages.

Solas ignores the glare Carver gives him. "If the Breach is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of our origin. Cassandra, you should know, the magic here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner here is no mage — "

" — oh _now_ I'm a prisoner again?" Carver grumbles.

" — indeed I find it difficult to imagine any mage holding such power."

"Understood," the Seeker says. Carver is still reeling from Solas casually calling her Cassandra.

"We must hurry to the Forward Camp," she says and jumps over a broken wall to a path leading around the mountain.

Solas gives him another thin smile. "I'm sure we can test you mark again along the way, the Breach has opened more rifts in its wake." He follows the Seeker and Carver waits for him to be out of earshot before he turns to Varric.

"...in its wake," he mocks.

Varric chuckles quietly. "Yes, he has a knack for the flourish that guy. Kind of surprising actually, never heard dalish elves talk like that."

They climb over the broken wall and Varric looks up to him. "Hey, Junior, how are you holding up?"

Carver opens his mouth to snap at Varris for the old nickname but the familiarity of it is actually a relief. "I don't even know, I..." he holds up his hand with the green light glowing in its palm. "This is not what I had in mind when I joined Cullen and the Seeker for this Inquisition business."

"And..." Varric slows his steps to make the gap between them and the others larger. "what about Sunshine, Daisy, Hawke?"

"They all went on board with Isabela, about a month ago." He looks down to Varric. "You know, when you disappeared, it started to look really unsafe in Kirkwall. Hawke collected all the mages she could find and who were willing to go and she got Isabela a ship."

"And Merrill went with them?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't join them?" There is a hint of accusation in Varric's voice.

"Excuse me? I'm a templar! Vows and all. Back then, we still had a working templar order on the Gallows, I couldn't just leave," he says, his voice getting louder.

"Sorry," Varric says, lowering his voice. "I just... Seeker Cassandra took me prisoner and shipped me across Thedas and I couldn't do anything. All the news I got from Kirkwall were bad, and worse the next day. I was just worried, about all of you, Hawke, Merrill, Bethany..."

The way he says Bethany's name makes Carver look more closely at Varric's face. The dwarf seems unusually serious, a worry line carved deep between his brows. Carver makes a mental note of asking Varric about that some other time.

"A few days after they left, Cullen told me that the Seeker Pentaghast wanted him to join her new Inquisition."

"Huh, she had that planned?" Varric wonders. "I didn't know that."

"We left like 12 days later. By that point, only two mages were left in the Circle and they both found another place to stay." Carver flexes his fingers, his marked hand is itching.

"I didn't know you could just lock up the barracks and declare the templar order closed like that," Varric says.

"Me neither. It felt like we were abandoning our post to be honest. But Cullen is — was technically my commanding officer, he could have ordered me to come with him. But he asked me and I..."

"You saw no reason to stay?"

Carver nods and flexes his fingers again, he can see now in the distance the reason for his itching hand: a rift is dancing on a frozen lake, surrounded by demons and ghostly wraiths again.

Varric pulls his crossbow from his shoulder and strokes lovingly over the polished wood. "Well, looks like there's work for us. Bianca is already excited."

Carver pulls the giant sword from his back and holds in front of him with both hands. The Seeker and Solas have already sped up their steps and Varric and him hurry to catch up to them.

"Tell me, Carver," Varric says as he slides three bolts into his crossbow, "the last two mages, where did they go when you closed the Circle?"

Carver sighs, of course Varric would pry on that question. "As far as I know, they've moved to work at the Blooming Rose."

Varric laughs out. "You're kidding me. Circle mages? At the Blooming Rose? How would they even know... wasn't it your job to prevent them from, you know, making mage babies? How...?"

"Well, yeah, apparently they knew everything they needed to know."

Varric can't stop snickering. "I'm afraid that won't look good on your templar report card."

"Well, lucky for me, we locked that card place up too," Carver grumbles. "Will you shut it now? How about you shoot some demons?"

"Of course," Varric says, still snickering, "right away, Serah Salvation."

"I hate you, Varric."

"Naw, you're happy to see me, admit it."

Carver hefts the sword up and runs towards the first fiery demon in his way to the rift. "Shut up," he calls over his shoulder.

This has been the weirdest day so far and he hasn't even had lunch yet.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're a glorified clerk, a _bureaucrat_ ," the Seeker yells at the chantry representative. Nobody can put quite so much disdain into a word like Seeker Pentaghast. For the first time since he met her, Carver really starts to like her.

He follows the white sun symbol on the Seeker's shield up the hill. The snow looks green. It's the light of the Breach reflecting on it but it looks like the sky has been sick and puked all over the Frostback Mountains. The Seeker stomps the snow into the ground as if she wants to punish it.

This is supposed to be a charge to the next fight but it feels more like a doomed hike. Maybe he should have picked the way through the mountain instead of charging into battle. He isn't even sure what kind of battle this is going to be. If rifts open everywhere, with demons pouring through, what difference does it make if he joins the fight on the hill instead of one on the other side of the mountain?

Funny, after dragging him through rows of angry people throwing rotten fruits at him and the bureaucrat demanding to get him thrown into prison, the Seeker left it to _Carver_ to decide where they should go next. Because they have to keep him alive. As if he has any idea what to do.

His hand is burning up in sickly green fire whenever the hole in the sky convulses. People always says that you get used to pain after a while but that's not true. You just can't run away from your own body. You have to stick with it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you hate it.

The Breach keeps spitting out green bombs of flames, exploding trees around them. Carver stares at the stump of what used to be a tree, now smoldering in black ash and green fire. It's only a matter of time until one of those bombs falls onto their heads.

"Spread out!" he yells to the others, running faster to take up the lead.

"Why?" the Seeker asks back with indignation. She probably didn't expect him to actually act like a leader when she forced him into this role.

' _Because if you ask me to make decisions for you, you can't expect me to be quiet for the rest of the time,_ ' he thinks to himself.

"Because we have to minimize the risk that one of those flame bombs takes out all of us."

"True." The Seeker takes a sharp turn and runs closer to the mountain side while Solas goes to the other side of the path.

Varric stays on the path but falls back a few paces. "I'm telling you," he calls out, "You don't want the dwarf stumbling through shrubbery, this is much faster."

Carver nods at him and runs forward. He can already hear the sound of battle and he forces himself to run faster. People die when soldiers come late.

The path narrows again, leading around the top of the hill and toward a stone gate. He has to slow down to catch his breath, watching, as a soldier runs towards him. Just then, another green fire bomb hits the stone gate, throwing the soldier forward. He lands in front of Carver's feet and doesn't move anymore.

Pulling the sword from his back, he runs, throwing himself into the fight. Demons rise from the ground in green flames and he cuts them down with all his strength. His cursed hand crackles and burns in flames but he ignores it, tightening his grip and swings his sword even faster.

The Seeker and the mage run past him and Solas stops for a moment, narrowly avoiding getting his head sliced off his neck when Carver swings against a demon.

"You have to seal the rift. More come through if you don't." Solas holds his gaze, the green fire throwing dark shadows on his face.

"I have to kill them, all of them!" Carver runs forward, slicing through wraiths and demons.

Solas is at his side again, grabbing his marked hand with surprising strength. "Only you can seal the rifts. I wish I could take this curse from you but I cannot. You are the only one."

"Fine." Carver turns to the crystalline structure and raises his hand. In his mind, he shoots the burning pain in his hand forward and crushes the crystal. His hand erupts in light, and if feels like a rope of energy shoots out, looping around the rift. It feeds on him, draining him of life. He lets the energy pull at him until it becomes almost unbearable and then yanks the rope back, as if he has to rein in a stubborn ox.

The rift closes with a burst of green light and the air around them stops humming. In the sudden silence, Solas comes up to Carver and smiles at him. "Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this."

Carver draws in a breath and waits for the fatigue to go away. He stares at his hand, the green flame receding to a slim cut in his palm. "Yeah, Cullen always said I needed a hobby."

Varric strolls up to them, fastening his crossbow Bianca to his back. "Let's hope it works on the big one."

A very familiar voice makes Carver look up.

Former Templar Knight-Commander Cullen runs towards them. "Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done."

"Do not congratulate me, Commander," the Seeker says. "This was the prisoner's doing."

"The prisoner?" He looks up to Carver and his eyes widen when he recognizes him. "Carver?" He turns to the Seeker. "Carver is the prisoner?"

"He stepped out of a rift at the temple with the mark on his hand," the Seeker explains.

"And you took him prisoner?" Cullen points at Carver. "You know him! He was one of the best templars in the Gallows and the last to stay there with me. We travelled here together, how — "

"Enough!" Lady Cassandra stares at Cullen until he closes his mouth and takes a step back. "I'm aware that my judgement might have been impaired by my grief."

Cullen acknowledges the explanation with a nod and comes over to Carver and pulls him into a hug. "Andraste's grace, I'm so glad to see you."

He lets go of Carver and his eyes linger on the faint green glow in Carver's palm. "I thought you were dead."

Carver shrugs, hiding the relief to see his friend. "Not dead, just slightly damaged." He holds up his marked hand.

"Does it hurt?"

"You know, you're the first person to ask me that," Carver says. "Yes, it fucking hurts like fuck."

"I'm sorry."

The Seeker comes up to them, looking at her feet. "I want to apologize for my mistrust."

"Could have happened to anybody I'm sure." His hand flares up again as the Breach chews up the sky once more. He turns to Cullen. "We have to get to the rift, end this somehow."

"The path to the temple should be clear now."

Carver clenches his marked fist as if he could extinguish the flames but it just burns brighter and more painfully. "Arse of the Maker," he growls through clenched teeth, ignoring the dark look the Seeker gives him for his blasphemy.

"Leliana will try to meet you there, Lady Cassandra" Cullen says to the Seeker.

"Then we'd best move quickly," she says.

Cullen turns to Carver with a solemn look. "Maker watch over you — for all our sakes." He turns and grabs the arm of an injured soldier, helping him walk toward the stone gate.

Carver takes the lead again, daring the Seeker to say anything against it with a look but she turns away. He jumps down a pile of rubble onto a plateau of what looks like molten lava. As he looks around, an unnerving feeling of familiarity creeps up his neck.

"This is where you walked out of the fade and our soldiers found you," the Seeker says. "They say a woman was in the rift behind you. Nobody knows who she was."

Carver stares at the broken ruin of what used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "I'm sorry Seeker, I don't remember anything."

"Please, call me Cassandra."

Carver looks around at the molten ground, corpses half buried in it, still burning. Their hands stretched forward, trying to protect themselves from annihilation sweeping over them, freezing them in their death pose. Corpses, shrunken to the bones, their faces locked in a permanent scream.

"I wish I knew what happened, Lady Cassandra. I wish...," he shakes his head. "I just hope the mark works on the Breach."

"We will soon know," Lady Cassandra says and walks up a pile of rubble that used to be stairs.

Carver stares at the corpses, wondering which one Siljan might have been. "I don't belong here," he says quietly to himself, "I should be dead."

"But you're not, Junior," Varric says behind him. "And frankly I'm not sure if I would have survived the wrath of your sister if you were, so I thank the Maker for that."

Carver holds out his marked hand, the green flames angrily dancing on it. "What if it doesn't work? What if this fucking hand can't do shit?"

"Then we have at least tried," Varric says, beckoning him to come with him. "Makes us into fabulous heroes. Someone should write a book about us."

Carver climbs up after him. "And who would be the writer?"

"Who else but me could do it justice?" Varric says with a grin over his shoulder.

Carver chuckles. "Then I better make sure to not destroy your career."

"I'd be grateful... oh damn." Varric stops and stares up to the Breach. From this up close it's gigantic and it seems to be miles above them. "That's a long way up."

Carver stares up to the maw of the Breach, watching the arcs of light sweeping down to the crystal floating several paces above the ground. It's bigger than anything he has ever seen. The mark on his hand flares up in bright, biting flames as the crystal changes shapes.

"I hope someone has an idea how I can reach that thing."


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the lyrium cracking in green glowing lines through the cliffs all around and the giant crystal in the sky, what disturbs him the most is the sound. The air in the whole valley vibrates with a drone of hollow despair.

The sound fills his head like a fog, making it difficult to think. Seeker Cassandra is saying something but he can't understand, her voice muffled by the drone in his head. She doesn't catch him staring at her in incomprehension because she turns back to greet a group of soldiers coming up the broken stairs. Carver shakes his head, trying to get rid of the fog in his head.

"Leliana!" Seeker Cassandra calls out and greets the woman leading the soldiers. Carver recognizes her, she held him prisoner with Cassandra. She exudes the same kind of ruthless determination that he sees in Cassandra's eyes and he doesn't trust her either to care for his personal well being at all.

"Junior?" Varric comes up to his side and his voice slowly works its way through Carver's head. If he concentrates, he can ignore the drone.

"It's huge."

"Yes," Solas says, appearing on his other side. "This was the first rift, and it's the key."

"To closing the Breach?" Carver asks.

"I believe so, yes."

His hand prickles with energy, the hair on his arms standing up.

"This is your chance to end this," Cassandra says, "are you ready?"

Carver stares at the giant crystal, deforming with loud cracks. He can feel every crack, every deformation like a spike into his hand. "Not gonna get any more ready than this," he says, flexing his hand.

"We have to get closer to it," Cassandra says and then turns to the soldiers and Leliana. "I want archers all around and the rest of your soldiers at our backs." She turns back to Carver and indicates to him to lead the way.

He follows a path around the open courtyard but it looks like he's running through a foreign world. Something has turned the mountains around them black, and green veins glow through cracks. The blackness swallows the minimal light from the grey sky, drenching everything in poisonous green. Carver feels the hum of lyrium in his bones, reacting to something all around him. It's not the same sensation as being close to someone doing magic but similar.

As he comes to the end of the path, a red glow catches his attention. Varric comes up to his side and snorts angrily.

"Red lyrium. Saw enough of that shit in the Deep Roads."

Carver doesn't have to ask what he means, he knows when and with whom he had been in the Deep Roads. And he vividly remembers the red glow of the idol that had driven Knight Commander Stannard to madness.

"Just don't touch it," Varric growls.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The drone gets louder and a voice, booming and dark, says, "Prepare for the ritual."

Carver stops dead in his tracks and Cassandra runs into him.

"What is that voice? Who is speaking?" she asks.

Pain stabs through Carver's head as something tells him that he has heard this voice before.

"Someone help me!" a woman screams from somewhere inside the deformed crystal. "What's going on here," another voice, his own voice says and Carver's hand flares up.

Cassandra grabs his arm. "That was you. Most Holy called out to you! But..."

Before she can continue asking him what he can't explain, a blinding light explodes from the crystal and a giant being formed of smoke and flames swings an axe made of clouds towards them. As they jump back, a ghostly image of the Divine, her arms bound with flames, is visible and then Carver sees an image of himself run towards her.

"What's going on here?" the image asks and the tortured face of the Divine turns to him and cries, "Run while you still can. Warn them!"

"We have an intruder," the booming voice says and the flaming eyes turn to the ghostly representation of Carver. "Slay the human!" it bellows before the white light disappears.

"What vision was that?" Cassandra calls out, confronting Carver with a murderous stare. "Was it real what we saw? You were there?"

Carver turns away, hissing from the pain in his glowing hand. "I don't remember. But..."

"What?"

"It felt familiar."

"The Fade bleeds into this place," Solas says calmly. "We saw echos of what happened here."

"And the Divine?" Cassandra asks, her voice filled with grief. "She spoke to you, is she...?"

"I'm sorry," Carver says, "I don't know."

"The rift is is closed but not sealed," Solas continues. "It will only hold temporarily. I believe the mark can reopen it and then seal it properly and safely."

The green glow on Carver's hand is jumping like a fanned flame, spitting sparks to the ground. "Alright, I'm gonna try to open it."

"That will surely attract attention from the other side," Solas says, still infuriatingly calm.

"That means demons," Cassandra acknowledges. She turns to the soldiers in the back. "Stand ready!"

Carver lifts his green glowing hand. The pain has become a constant background noise to the humming of lyrium in his veins. Which reminds him of something.

"Solas, you're the only mage we have here right now, right?"

"I believe so, yes."

"And all this," Carver gestures to the green glowing madness around him, "has something to do with magic, don't you think?"

Solas hesitates, his face showing no emotions. "I would say it is very old magic, of a kind we have little knowledge about."

"Well, I'm a templar and I have abilities that work against magic," Carver says. "But when I use them, they will affect you too."

"I can protect myself."

"Have you ever swallowed a Cleansing Wave?" Carver says and can't help but grin. "I've been told that it's pretty nasty. It purges all your magical effects and blocks you from the Fade. You won't be using your magic again for some time."

He can't help but feel a smug satisfaction at the horrified look on Solas' face, having shaken the mage for once.

"I appreciate the warning," Solas says. "Am I protected if I stay behind you?"

"Give it a few paces and you should be fine."

The mage disappears from his field of view and Carver takes a long look around at the archers on the ruins, hiding behind cover. The soldiers behind him look at him with their swords in their hands and he can see the fear in their eyes through the slots in their helmets. Memories flash through his head, screams of a battle lost in Ostagar, of eyes that couldn't hold fear anymore.

Cassandra comes up to him, a small, familiar looking vial in her hand. "If you intend to use your abilities, you should take this dose of lyrium. You haven't had any while you were imprisoned."

He takes the small vial with a grateful nod and swallows the contents in one go. It ices its way down his throat, the feeling familiar. For a blink of an eye the world goes silent and then the familiar rush slams through his body like an ice-cold wind. He sways, the rush even more intense after having been in withdrawal for the last few days. Someone holds him with a hand on his back; it's Cassandra and he gives her a grateful smile.

Then, just as the rush is receding, the world slams into focus again and he doubles over from the onslaught of impressions. All that lyrium, previously just a strange lighting effect in the granite, now sings a grinding song in his body. He can even hear the red lyrium, the pitch all wrong, shrieking its own song. The drone in the air drills into his skull and the magic of the rift above presses on him like a giant fist. It's almost an instinctual reaction to gather his powers at his core and focus them to shield himself against the attacking magic. He looks over to Cassandra, his vision swimming and his templar power humming under his fingernails.

Cassandra gives him a nod and readies her sword and shield. He stretches his arm, focussing the burning energy of the marked hand onto the crystal, willing it to open for him. His other hand twitches, freezing under the load of the Cleansing Wave he holds at the ready. The rift twists and cracks under the lighting bolt shooting from his hand and the drone gets louder and louder until the crystal explodes in a deafening blast and spits out a gigantic creature that seems to form out of the light itself.

It towers over them, long ram-horns winding backwards from its head and it takes Carver a second to recognize it as a pride demon, albeit in a gigantic form. Carver snarls, anger fueling the power he has readied. The demon roars, the crystal forms again and Carver releases the Cleansing Wave with a punch. The wave shoots forward, negating the magic in front of him and for a moment the air smells crisp and clear. But then the crystal expands again with a crack, unaffected by the wave.

At least the demon seems to stagger from it, if only making it vulnerable for a moment. Cassandra yells her command and the archers let their arrows fly. Carver readies another ability, his vision shimmering in lyrium blue. Again he gathers his power in his center. He has always been good at this, one of the best in the Gallows.

Taking the sword from his back, he uses it to focus Wrath of Heaven onto the demon and shoots it at him with everything he has. He puts so much force into it, it almost knocks him off his own feet. His marked hand burns and hisses and the blue glow begins to fade from his vision, exhaustion threatening to take over but he forces himself to run towards the beam of light that he has thrown onto the demon.

The monster hisses, its barrier fading and a blast of ice hits and freezes its legs. Solas has apparently managed to shield himself from the Cleansing Wave and his attack makes the monster vulnerable. Carver hits its legs, thick like trees, with his sword, shattering the ice. But it laughs at him, shaking the injury off and the cuts he made seal as he watches.

"The rift! You have to disrupt it, it will affect the demons!" Solas yells at him, freezing a group of smaller demons in his way.

Carver wants to argue but even through the haze of anger and exhaustion he can see that their efforts in injuring the giant pride demon are futile. If they can't find a way to seriously harm it, it will just keep healing itself until they're all dead.

He turns, feeling sick to his stomach for turning his back to the fight and runs closer to the rift. A few demons shoot out of the ground in front of him but he slices them down as fast as he can. When he is under the expanding crystal of the rift, he holds his hand up again and wills the lightning bolt to expand from it. Its golden light is a balm in all the poisonous green and red and the receding blue haze in his vision.

The crystal cracks under the golden rope of light, twitching like a living thing, trying to evade the light. The droning noise shifts in pitch, grating on his ears and then the crystal turns into green fog.

Carver tries to pull at the fog with his hand but the mark doesn't react. The lesser demons have disappeared, somehow replaced by columns of green light that feel cold on his skin when passes them. He runs back to his companions, to the actual fight. The giant demon is on his knees, half frozen by Solas' ice.

He plunges his sword into its back, and a painful roar from the beast is his reward.

"The rift is not closed yet," Solas yells at him, shooting another blanket of ice at the creature. He is still powerful but Carver sees the first signs of exhaustion in his face. Even a powerful mage, and Solas is impressively powerful, has a limit.

"I know, but the mark doesn't react when it's like this." He gestures at the green fog, floating like a sheet of gossamer silk in the air. It's almost beautiful.

The creature rises again, sluggish but just as deadly as before. One sweep of its arms throws a whole row of swordfighters against the remaining walls of the ruin and Cassandra only manages to dodge at the last moment.

"We can't do this much longer," Solas says. His fingers draw a complicated pattern in the air, light jumping between his fingertips. "Come with me, I will try to aggravate the rift, then you can close it."

"Aggravating a rift to the fade sounds like a really bad idea," Carver mumbles to himself. He hates having to leave the combined attack on the demon again, having to leave Cassandra, Varric and the remaining soldiers to fight for their lives so that he can hold up his cursed hand.

Solas lifts his hands, still drawing patterns in the air, light of a softer shade of green gathering around his hands and then he throws the ball of light at the green fog. It shrieks like an angry demon and instantly turns back into a crystal. In the same moment, Carver's hand lights up and burns like real fire.

He screams, throwing the energy in his arm against the crystal, watching the golden rope of light connecting to the crystal. It shrinks, twitching, screaming and he pulls harder at the rope of light. He can feel it draining him. It feeds on him.

Something hits his back and he loses his focus. The lighting rope falters and splinters. A demon has appeared behind him, clawing at him, ripping straight through his armor, its mouth snapping close a mere finger width away from his head.

A bolt hits the creature, slowing it down and Carver grips his sword with both hands, clenching his teeth against the pain and slices the demon in half from top to bottom. Something warm trickles down his back but he ignores it.

"Sorry, Junior," Varric calls out from the top of a boulder, "didn't see that." He shoots demons as fast as he can load his bolts, keeping them away from their backs.

"Carver!" Solas throws his strange green energy at the rift again. Carver turns back, focussing on the rift again. The golden rope shoots from his hand, feeding on his energy, his very life force. He holds the connection, pulling at it with his mind until, finally, the golden light overpowers the rift, snapping it closed.

The rift seals up, swallowing itself, until it's just a small green line in the sky. The golden rope of light dissolves and nothing holds Carver on his legs anymore.

He doesn't feel it when his head hits the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

Sunlight tickles his nose. It smells of fresh hay, melting snow and log fires burning. Mother is probably cooking porridge over the fire in the kitchen. He turns on his side, stealing a few more moments of rest before he has to get up. Bethany will come and steal away his blanket soon, she always knows when he is about to wake up. She will be here any moment.

Carver's eyes fly open. Bethany will not come, neither will Marian, and mother... is not cooking porridge.

The bed is too soft and he's wearing something that feels suspiciously like Orlesian silk. It has golden buttons down the front, way too many to be practical and they shine so bright in the sunlight that it hurts to looks at them. He sits up, taking in the unfamiliar room. The walls are made of logs, sealed with clay, and there's glass in the window.

"You're up! I didn't mean to wake you!" A slim elf, carrying towels and clothing in their arms, stares at him with wide eyes.

"Where am I?"

The elf falls to their knees, pressing their forehead onto the carpet. "I beg your forgiveness and your blessing, Herald, I am but a humble servant."

"Will you stop that," Carver says, setting his feet on the carpet. It's probably Orlesian too, it's almost indecently soft. "Where am I? And get up."

"You're back in Haven, my Lord. They say you've saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand."

Carver stares at his hand. The mark has shrunk to a cut in his palm and when he focuses on it, it glows green but it's nothing like the angry green fire it used to have.

"It's all anybody has talked about for the last three days."

"Three days?"

"You were not well. Lady Seeker said to tell her at once when you woke up." The elf gets up and stumbles backwards to the door.

"Wait!" Carver calls after them. "I need something to wear."

"At once she said, at once," the elf says as they run away.

A cold draft comes through the open door. Carver gets up and closes it. He looks around the room. A desk stands opposite the bed, close to the window. Books and papers are strewn all over it, as if someone has been working there a little while ago. On the table next to the bed is a little figurine of Andraste, like Cullen used to have, with a burning candle in front of it.

He looks out of the window. The sky is winterly grey but it's not the depressing greenish grey he last saw when the Breach tried to eat the world. He searches the sky, blinking against the sunlight peeking through the clouds. The Breach is still there, looking like a green eddy of clouds but its maw seems to be calm.

He looks back at his hand, at the green light in his palm. "At least this was good for something then."

Looking around, he spots a closet leaning against the wall. His fingers are absentmindedly playing with the gleaming buttons on the silken shirt and he sends a quick prayer up to whoever listens that the closet contains something else for him to wear.

It turns out, the closet contains indeed three sets of armor but apparently the same person responsible for the ridiculously gleaming buttons on his current dress, was also responsible for the armor design. A beam of sunlight falls on the armor and Carver has to close his eyes against the light reflecting off all the gilding. He picks out one set that looks at least like it's his size and has enough freedom of movement for his arms. Of course, the shoulderguards, designed like overlapping feathers, are gilded and glitter with every move.

 _I bet I look like a bird_. Marian would give him so much shit if she saw him like this. And Merrill — there is a bite in his chest when he thinks about her — Merrill would probably love it. Tell him how pretty he looked with all that gold.

He shoves the thoughts away, opens the door to the outside and immediately closes it again. There's people out there, at least a hundred, forming an alley for him to walk through, as if he is some kind of king. Either they want to have better aim for their rotten fruits to throw at him or they like him now and want to cheer him on. Neither prospect is very appealing to him.

He takes another look at the glittering golden "feathers" on his armor and shrugs. Maybe they just want to laugh at his ridiculous outfit. With a deep breath, he steps outside, taking in the snow covered roofs of the simple huts and houses of the village, and the huge chantry building, overlooking the village. That's probably where he should go.

A wave of straightening backs runs through the alley of people as he approaches, people staring at him as if he's some kind of king. He hears whispers of "That's him, that's the Herald of Andraste," and looks behind himself to check who they could mean by that.

"He stopped the Breach from growing, he saved us," someone says in the crowd and the expression _Herald of Andraste_ keeps jumping at him from the crowd, whispered, called out, even sung in one case. He hurries his steps, forcing his feet to keep on walking towards the chantry, instead of running the other way.

A cluster of chantry sisters and brothers in their familiar garb gathers around the heavy doors of the massive building, shivering in the cold. He pushes the doors open and looks at the shivering men and women.

"Why don't you come inside?" he aks, holding the door open.

"Chancellor Roderick said that he wants nothing to do with us."

"That's ridiculous, you're clergy and this is the chantry, where else should you be?"

"He thinks..." one brother begins but is interrupted by a sister.

"That's the Herald of Andraste, I will follow his word, not that of Chancellor Roderick." She goes inside with sure steps and one by one, the rest follow her.

Carver sighs. A headache begins to form behind his eyes. "I'm not the Herald of anybody, why do you call me that?"

The chantry sister turns to him and bows her head. "You saved us. Andraste herself gave you this mark to save us in this time of need. You are her Herald."

"Andraste gave me...?" He stares at the group of high ranking chantry clergy, all bowing for him and his green glowing hand. He lets the door slip from his hand, waiting for it to clunk shut. A couple of candles blow out from the wind and in the dim darkness, he slips away from the group.

He wonders for a moment where he should look for Lady Cassandra but then he hears enraged yelling behind a door and is fairly certain that he has reached his destination.

Upon opening the door, he sees Cassandra engaged in a heated discussion with the 'bureaucrat' and Lady Leliana watching. The chancellor turns around upon his entering and demands him to be chained and prepared for transport to his trial. Cassandra tells the guards to ignore the order and leave them, and they turn and go. Carver takes careful note of who seems to be in charge here and it's not that chancellor.

Cassandra lowers her voice. "The Breach is stable for now but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it."

"Let me guess, you need my hand for this," Carver says, stepping forward.

"Oh, you have done plenty enough, your actions will be taken into account by the next Divine," the chancellor spits at him.

Carver stares him down. "I don't think we're done here yet."

"The Breach is not the only threat we face," Cassandra says.

Lady Leliana steps up to Cassandra and the way she walks, reminds Carver of a cat. Her face is half hidden in the shadow of a scarf and her voice has an edge to it. "Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone who Most Holy did not expect." She looks directly at the chancellor. "Perhaps they died with the others — or may have had allies who yet still live."

"I am a suspect now?" the chancellor calls out, enragement turning his face red.

"You, and many others."

"But not the prisoner?"

Carver leans back against the wall and rolls his eyes. "I don't think I'm still a prisoner, am I?"

Cassandra looks at him. "I heard the Divine, she called to him for help."

"And the mark, a coincidence —"

"The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour," Cassandra says. "That's what I believe and I may be wrong, but I will not ignore that he is our only hope for closing the Breach."

"Can we cut this short?" Carver interrupts. His head is really starting to hurt now and he's getting hungry. "The mark on my hand can solve a bunch of problems and I'm sure we can find out what happened along the way. So, from now on, who am I working for?"

The chancellor turns on Cassandra. "This is not for you to decide, the chantry will not— "

Cassandra pulls a thick book from a shelf and lets it drop on the table with a thump. "You know what this is, chancellor," she says, staring at him. "A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of now, I declare the Inquisition to be reborn." She steps up to the chancellor, who stumbles to get away from her. "We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible and we will restore order. With or without your approval."

Carver flinches at this declaration. He has heard the 'restore order' speech before, in Kirkwall, and it didn't exactly end well.

The chancellor mutters something about consequences and leaves the room with a huff.

"This is the Divine's directive," Leliana says. "Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos."

Carver pushes himself off the wall and looks at the symbol on the book. It looks like the sun of the Seekers. Or like the symbol that is burned in the forehead of mages made tranquil. It brings a chill to his spine. "What's this Inquisition of old?"

"It predated the chantry," Leliana says. "People who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad."

"Restore order?" Carver asks. "Whose order exactly?"

"When they laid down their banner afterwards, they became the Templar Order."

"So, the chantry kind of order?" Carver looks from one woman to the other. "See, this may be weird coming from a templar but I don't like this. I don't like it when one organization acts like they're king and queen of the lands and can define what order means. I've seen one Knight Commander gone mad with that idea, I'd rather not repeat that."

"Knight-Commander Meredith was corrupted — "

"The whole templar order is corrupted! Do you think Kirkwall was the only Circle where mages were made tranquil just because a templar felt like it?" The red-hot staff with the sun symbol at the end, doused in templar flame, pressed to the forehead of someone who in that instant stopped being a person, their eyes turning dull, their bodies going slack. He has watched that sun burn many foreheads, dread freezing him in place. But if he wanted to keep protecting Bethany and even Marian, he had to stay silent. A person being turned into a mindless tool, their emotions, their very soul stolen. Every instance he has watched has followed him into his nightmares.

"Kirkwall was just one symptom of a whole disease. Templars have gotten used to abusing their power without consequences. This war has been going on for years, and it will keep on going because the whole system is at fault." He turns to Cassandra, looking her in the eyes. "I'm not going to be your tool to restore something that you consider to be the right kind of order. I'll close the Breach and that's it. I'm not going to help you rebuild a new templar order to terrorize the people of Thedas."

Cassandra is quiet for a long time. Finally she nods. "I understand. I think..." She sighs and mumbles a small prayer. "I promise to rethink my stance with your words in mind. But for now, we need people helping us, we have no army, no supplies, no templars, no mages. And the chantry doesn't support us either. We need to unite the people who are willing to do what must be done to save the world under a single banner. To work together, with you."

"I can hardly say no, can I?" Carver says with a sigh. "Fine, I'll lead this inquisition, gather people to support us, fix the Breach."

"That's all we ask," Leliana says and Carver has a distinct feeling that she could say much more but decided against it.

Cassandra holds out her hand. "Fix this with us, before it's too late."

Carver takes her hand and shakes it. "Now, that this is done, can I get something to eat?"

A rare smile appears on Lady Cassandra's face. "Yes, we have a kitchen, I'm sure the cook can whip something up for you. And if not, there's an inn in the village. One of the guards will show you."

"Do we still have guards? Chantry guards?" Carver looks from her to Leliana and back. "I mean, didn't our chantry support walk out of here with the Chancellor just now?"

"Oh." Cassandra looks flustered for once and when she opens the door, only one guard is still standing next to it, his helmet in his hands.

"Uhm, Jesling went with the chancellor," the guard says, turning the helmet in his hands. "He said, the chancellor did, that you're not chantry any more, I'm sorry Lady Cassandra, and that we're not working for you and that you're heretics for protecting that imposter." He looks over to Carver and quickly drops his gaze.

"But you didn't leave," Leliana says softly.

"Don't care what the chancellor says, that's the Herald of Andraste. I'm staying. This is important."

Cassandra puts her hand on his and stills his nervous playing with his helmet. "What is your name?"

"Morten, Lady Cassandra, been with the templars here in Haven for six years now."

"The Inquisition will employ you," Cassandra says, "you will have food and shelter and we will pay you wages eventually, just..." she looks helplessly to Leliana.

"Just not right away," Leliana says, "we are securing funds and resources now."

"That's fine, Serah, I don't need much." Guard Morten puts his helmet back on. "I know a few templars who want to follow the Herald of Andraste, I will tell them of this new Inquisition."

"Have them find me," Cassandra says. "We need people."

The guard leaves with a bow towards Carver. Cassandra turns to him. "Let me show you to the kitchen, I feel a bit famished myself."

Leliana falls into step along with them into a long hallway out to the side of the chantry building. "I received note that Lady Josephine Montilyet has arrived, should I ask her to join us? I have some Antivan coffee left that she'll surely enjoy."

Cassandra nods. "Yes, why not. And if you could find Cullen as well? We might as well have a first strategy meeting over coffee and biscuits."

Leliana gives a nod and disappears into another hallway. This part of the building is like a labyrinth, winding tunnels carved into the stone of the mountain that the chantry leans against. Carver tries to remember the way but he isn't sure if he will ever find a way out of here on his own. Finally, they end up in the kitchen, warm and aglow in gold by a fire in the stove, with a big table in the middle. The smell of stew makes his mouth water.

A woman and a man, both equally wide shouldered, turn around as they enter. The man smiles at Lady Cassandra and the woman scowls and gets a few bowls from a shelf.

"About time, my lady," she says with the same sharp Nevarran accent that Cassandra has.

"Very kind, but we only wanted some coffee and biscuits — "

"Lady Cassandra Allegra Pentaghast, you haven't eaten all day and I made stew, fit to serve a king, for you and the Herald of Andraste and you will eat it now." She sets bowls on the table and looks at Cassandra until she sits down.

Carver doesn't need an invitation, his stomach is growling loudly and he spoons the thick stew into his mouth before his butt has even settled on the chair. By the time his brain registers how good the stew is, he has already emptied half of the bowl. He finishes it off and holds out the bowl with a hopeful smile. "Can I get some more?"

The man and the woman smile widely and she fills his bowl again. "I'm glad my stew is appreciated by the Herald of Andraste."

Carver waits until the man and the woman have turned around again, kneading and forming loaves of bread. He turns to Cassandra, "You have to stop this 'Herald of Andraste' thing, I'm no herald."

"It's a rumor," Leliana says at his back. He has not heard her come in. "One we do nothing to dispel for now."

"Why not?"

Leliana takes a seat at the table and accepts the bowl of stew with a grateful nod. Before she can answer, a woman in golden ruffles and rustling skirts, floats into the kitchen, looking entirely out of place but seemingly unperturbed by it. She takes a seat next to Carver and gives him a dazzling smile.

"May I introduce, Lady Josephine Montilyet from Antiva."

Carver nods at her.

"I originally invited Lady Montilyet to present the idea of the inquisition to the Divine with me, after the Conclave," Cassandra says, a shadow passing over her face. "But now we need her diplomatic connections even more to gather support among the powerful and noble families of Thedas."

Cullen enters the kitchen, greeting everyone with a nod and takes a seat. He takes a bowl of stew with a grateful smile. Carver picks a slice of fresh bread and bites into it. It's still warm and he has to stop himself from moaning, it's so good. "What do we need the nobility for?" he asks after swallowing the bite.

"Sponsoring," Lady Josephine says, breaking small bits from her slice of bread and eating them like pralines. "For now we stand alone and will run out of funding soon. You being seen as the Herald of Andraste will help us to secure funding."

"How convenient." Carver picks another slice of softly steaming bread and looks at it. "Where did this all come from then? The flour, the vegetables?"

"Chantry stocks," the cook says.

"Well, we can just take that, can we not?" He looks at Cassandra.

"Steal from the chantry?" The Seeker has never looked so horrified.

Carver shrugs. "You're the one who keeps insisting on calling me the Herald of Andraste." He notices how everyone looks at him and it occurs to him that no one else in this room will make this decision. It's on him. "We confiscate everything in this chantry in the name of the Herald of Andraste."

"But..." Cassandra begins to protest but stops. "Yes, it will be done. We are the Inquisition. The Herald of Andraste is on our side."

"Maker's arse, I hate that title," Carver mumbles.

Cullen chokes on his stew as he tries to hide his laughter.

Carver holds up his bowl. "Can I get more stew?"

The cook grins. "Anything for the Herald of Andraste."


	7. Chapter 7

_This chapter may be rambling but there's important stuff happening so you just have to come along._

* * *

"On foot?" Carver stares at Cassandra in disbelief. He pulls out the map again and holds it against the Requisition's officer's table, so that the wind can't blow it away. At least it isn't raining but the cold wind makes sure to remind them of the snow up here in the mountains. "That's at least a three days march. If the weather holds." He hasn't exactly looked forward to a another horseride but at least they could have found that chantry mother in half the time.

"Chancellor Roderick and his templars took the horses. We're going to have get our own horses." Cassandra says with a longing smile. Carver wonders if she's missing the horse she rode on when they travelled to the temple. She had been quite affectionate with it.

"Someone has to know where you can get good horses around here," he says, looking at Leliana. He isn't quite sure what exactly a spymaster does but getting information should be right up her alley.

"I will see to it, Herald," she answers with a slight edge to the way she says his title.

Carver has decided to ignore Leliana's subtle ways of criticism until she actually says what bothers her about him. For now, he's just going to continue to do what needs to be done. He loads a pack with tents and supplies on one of the lighter footed mules, at least they still have those. A squad of former templars, now with the new inquisition symbol on their armor, will follow them with slow pack mules, to bring supplies to the camp in the Outskirts.

The sun has come up over the mountain, making the inquisition symbols glow golden. The new symbol, the sun with a sword through it, is now on every flag and banner. A strange smell wafts through the air, as another flag unfolds above the chantry doors.

"Ah, the smell of Blood Lotus and Deep Mushrooms," Varric drawls as he carries his pack over to the mule. On Carver's questionable look he continues. "Moth repellent. Cassandra got all this stuff out of storage somewhere and it was on the same ship that brought me here. It must be from the first Inquisition. Gave me a headache, I'm telling you, the whole barge stank of this."

"She really came prepared," Carver says quietly and Varric nods.

"Makes you wonder how far ahead she has planned all this, doesn't it?"

Carver nods and straps his new sword to his hip and fixes a shield to the hand with the mark. He has exchanged the comically large zweihänder sword with a lighter blade that he can use one handed and the armorer has attached a special belt to the shield so that it stays on his arm when he has to use the mark. It's a nice, round shield, iron bands riveted to its front in a criss-cross pattern and of course the sun and sword symbol shining white in the middle.

"Let's go." He pulls his coat closed and marches down towards the city gate. Varric and Solas follow him closely, while Cassandra and Cullen follow a bit behind them, engaged in deep conversation.

"Hey, Junior," Varric says next to him, "still holding up alright?"

"It's been a bit much on the bullshit plate lately," Carver says, keeping his voice low.

"You went from being Thedas' most wanted criminal to joining the army of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day." Varric chuckles but his worry looks genuine.

"Army of the faithful... don't remind me." Carver sighs. "None of this shit should have happened."

"Definitely agree with that."

Carver looks at Varric. "Tell me, why did _you_ stay? Cassandra said you're free to go."

"I like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this…" Varric shakes his head. "Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there's a hole in the sky. Even I can't walk away and just leave that to sort itself out."

"Yeah, I get it, same here to be honest. I'm not all that keen on the Herald thing but it is what it is for now."

"I heard it was useful in confiscating everything from the chantry." Varric grins at that. "A bold move, I'd say."

"Hey, I've been running the requisitions office at the Gallows for over a year before... the whole shit exploded. I know we'll need all that."

"You were in charge of requisition?"

"Supplies, provisions, I know how much a cart full of templars eat. Without the stock in the chantry, the inquisition would have starved in a day."

Varric chuckles again. "No wonder Cullen trusts you to handle this all, you've been his second in command for years."

"I was not, I... huh," now that he thinks about it, he's been at Cullen's side for pretty much anything, except when the Knight-Commander was called into Meredith's office. Not that he'd been sad to miss out on that. "Well, it had to be done."

"That seems to be your life motto."

Carver grins at that. "Better than the old one."

"Which is that?"

"Standing in the shadow."

Varric laughs out and then looks over his shoulder, making sure that Cassandra is out of earshot. "Speaking of shadow — I have news."

Carver moves closer to Varric and lowers his voice. "What is it?"

"Got a raven from the Shadow, they're in Oralis."

"In Orlais?" Carver tries to imagine his sister in the finery of orlesian fashion and fails. Bethany maybe, but Marian?

"Not in Val Royeaux, on this side of the Waking Sea, somewhere near the Imperial Highway. They might travel through the Dales now."

"Is Merrill still with them?"

Varric looks up to him with a reassuring smile and nods. "Isabela is sailing the Waking Sea, but Merrill and your sisters are travelling together."

"Do you think..." Carver looks over his shoulder to make sure that Cassandra is still engaged in her conversation with Cullen. He lowers his voice even more, leaning down to Varric so that he can hear. "Do you think we could find them?"

"Do we want that?" Varric hurries his steps to gain more distance to potential listeners. "What if Anders is still with them? Or other rebel mages, I can just see the Shadow army of rebel mages stomping through Haven's gate. Personally, I would love to have your sisters around and Daisy as well but... will Cassandra arrest them all or recruit them? You're the Herald but — "

"You think she'll want to replace me?"

"With Mar— I mean — with the Shadow? Maker, what a terrible idea that would be."

"Worse than me?"

Varric stops him from stomping ahead with a hand on his arm. "Listen, Junior, you're doing great. You got this whole organisation rolling in a _day,_ I've seen merchants failing to stock their stores in that time. I don't know if Andraste had her hand in this but if she did, she found the right guy for the job."

Cullen comes up to them. "Yes, I agree."

They pick up the pace again, Cassandra is now engaged in a conversation with Solas. Carver sighs. "I'm not andrastian enough for all this."

"Maybe it's enough that Andraste believes in you," Cullen says.

"The chantry sure doesn't," Carver says. "Our ambassador told me that the chantry keeps telling everyone that we can't stop the Breach and that me messing with it will make it worse." He flexes his hand with the mark, watching the rift light glow in his palm.

"Hopefully this Mother Giselle can convince them otherwise."

The path narrows between jagged rocks. Varric falls back a bit and Cullen takes the lead. Carver follows him, his arms stretched to the side in case he loses his footing. "Cullen," he asks quietly, "do we know how many people died at the Conclave?"

Cullen looks over his shoulder but doesn't meet his eyes. "We're still counting. Three-hundred at least. Every day we find someone else in the rubble. And some of the injured still suffer; there's not much hope that they'll survive." He shakes his head. "Adan is doing what he can with potions but he's no healer."

Carver wonders if he should mention that a very famous mage healer could be on the other side of the Frostback mountain range right this moment. _Better not._ "No village healer? Traveling healers?"

"If they were any, they were near the temple when it exploded. There's supposed to be a wise midwife, a herbal healer somewhere near Haven but nobody would tell me where."

"Of course," Carver murmurs, thinking about the midwife near Lothering he had helped sometimes.

"Why 'of course'?" Cullen jumps down a ledge and finally, the valley opens up and they can walk side by side again.

"You're a templar and she's probably a hedge mage, not quite strong enough to raise alarm as an apostate but probably not someone you want a templar to find out about."

"Former templar."

"Subtleties. 'Former' doesn't mean much for people in the country. Have someone from around here ask the old people in Haven, I bet they know someone."

Cullen nods and for a while they walk in silence. The land is getting greener the further they get away from the Frostback mountains. The green hills and hardy trees remind Carver painfully of Lothering, the home he lost to the Blight. He almost expects their little house to appear behind the next hill.

They stop for a break on top of a hill overlooking the country. Carver's boots are new and not quite his size and his feet are actively complaining about that. He puts some elfroot salve on his heel, where a red spot promises soon to grow blister. He cleans his hands in the dewy grass as Cullen sits down next to him with some bread and cheese.

"Best cheese in the chantry," he says as he hands Carver a piece.

"How lucky we are." Carver eats fast as it is his habit but stops to look at Cullen. "You should go back to Haven now, you know? Before it gets dark."

"There's plenty of time."

"Maybe, but you should — "

"Yes, I know!" Cullen shouts.

Carver is taken aback by his sudden outburst. He watches Cullen, waiting for him to explain himself. But the man seems to be determined to stare angrily ahead and never talk again.

"Andraste's arse Cullen, what was that about?" he finally asks.

"Nothing."

"Nugshit."

"Doesn't matter."

"Sure, that's why you're sulking here like a baby recruit."

Cullen finally turns to him, anger carving a deep line between his eyes. "I have to protect you. At all cost. You're our only hope and my friend and if anything happens to you..."

"Stop it," Carver says, grabbing Cullen's shoulder to make him look at him. "I'm not alone, I can take care of myself and I need you in Haven. If the chantry decides to march on us, the people need protection."

"But you..."

"This whole thing could topple over any moment if Roderick gets his hand on some forces. You have to prepare everyone we have and guard the village. We stand no chance if we lose Haven."

Cullen nods with a sigh. "I know you're right. I just..."

"I know," Carver says. He knows all about failure and pressuring yourself. He knows and he swallows it down just like Cullen.

"Alright, I'm going back with Jen and Morten. Don't do anything risky." Cullen looks at him.

Carver shrugs. "When have I ever..."

"Don't get me started." Cullen shakes his head and pulls Carver into a short embrace. "You're important, whether you like it or not."

Carver returns the embrace, their armor scraping against each other as he claps on Cullen's back. As Cullen turns back to get his men, Carver calls to him. "You know, if anything happens to me, what you'll really have to worry about is my sisters finding out."

"Maker's grace," Cullen blurts out and he actually turns pale.

Carver chuckles to himself as he climbs down to the rest of his troup. Varric grins at him and he relates the story to him as they trot forward through the beautiful landscape.

The trip would have been terribly boring if it hadn't been for the bandits that keep making the very stupid decision to attack a group of travellers led by Cassandra Pentaghast. They are no trouble for them but Carver begins to worry about the refugees that are supposed to be on this path to the Crossroads. They hardly meet any.

By the time the sun goes down, they've covered about a third of the distance and picked up only four refugees. Carver feels like it should be much more. They set up camp at the mouth of a cave and start a fire before the evening chill can draw into their bones. Solas brings a bunch of rabbits, expertly skinned, even though nobody saw him disappear and hunt for them.

While the rabbit stew cooks, Carver sits down next to Cassandra. They clean their swords and sharpen them.

"Shouldn't there be more refugees on this path?" he asks as his hands work the familiar, repetitive movements.

"Maybe they all moved to the Crossroads? Or they might avoid us," Cassandra says.

Carver nods. "We could be just another troop of bandits or rogue templars to them." He looks at his shield next to him. "I see now why you had the new symbol painted on everything."

"Yes," Cassandra says with a rare smile. "I hope we can establish this symbol for the Inquisition and show what good we do."

"People should know that we're here and that we can help."

"Yes!" Cassandra smiles at him in relief. "I'm glad we agree on that."

Carver drips some oil on his sword and works it into the metal. If he keeps working, he can ignore the dull pain from the green glowing cut in the palm of his left hand. "Do we have more of these banners? Or something like staffs with the Inquisition's symbol?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"People out here don't hear much. They don't know what's going on in Val Royeaux, Kirkwall or Denerim. They have their farms and meet at the market once a month and unless a minstrel comes to the market to tell of the most recent news, nothing really reaches them."

Cassandra puts her sword in her lap and looks at him. "You come from a place like this."

"Around Lothering, for the most part. My father..."

"Malcolm Hawke," Cassandra interrupts, "I know. An apostate, in the graces of the Wardens."

"That didn't help us much in our lives, we had to move around a lot." Carver sighs. So many times had they started to build something, only to leave it all behind when the templars began patrolling around their house. "For the people to learn that we're here, that the Inquisition is helping, they need to see us. We have to claim these lands, be visible."

"We could set up flagpoles with the symbol, to show that this land is under our protection." Cassandra looks at him with an expression he can't decipher before she focuses on her sword again. "I will see to it that we'll have those with us from now on."

She looks at him again with that strange expression and he wonders if it is something like appreciation. He can't really tell, he's never seen that on her.

Just as they are about to settle down for the night, Carver has taken off his pants to let them dry and works elfroot paste into his feet again, one of the watchers whistles a warning. Carver scrambles to put on his breastplate. He grabs his sword and shield as a group of heavily armed strangers run towards them. A chill goes down his spine when he recognizes templar armor. These are templars gone rogue and apparently on a killing spree.

"Hold! We are not apostates." Cassandra yells at them, but they don't even slow down.

"I do not think they care, Seeker," Solas says, drawing a glyph on the ground and beckons Carver to step into it.

Carver winces when his foot reminds him that he's had no time to put on his boots yet. The glyph sings like lyrium and he can feel its effect under the soles of his feet. It calms him but a the same time the magic simmers under his skin like lightning. The mark on his hand seems to hum.

Templar attacks slam against the wall of the glyph, making it light up as it absorbs the power. The attackers run towards them, casting weakly until they have no reserve left. Carver jumps out of the glyph and attacks. He brings them down with a wide sweep of his shield and a kick against the knee and yells at them. "Stop attacking us, I'm a templar, we're not your enemies."

Through the slit in the helmet he catches a look at the eyes of the templar and cold dread runs down his back. They don't look human, those eyes. They don't even look alive. Red around black, dull and lifeless.

"What happened to you?"

The templar doesn't answer and the sounds they make don't seem human. The other templar is crawling around on elbows, legs dragging behind them, the sword in their hand blindly whacking at Carver's naked feet. He jumps out of the range, still hesitant to make the killing blow.

A bolt of lightning shoots through the one templar and then hits the other on the ground. They crumble down dead, their armor black and twisted by the energy.

"Your hesitancy speaks for your good heart," Solas says, his staff still crackling with lightning. "But you cannot afford this luxury with rogue templars. _They_ do not hesitate."

Cassandra comes over to them. "Like rabid dogs they attacked. They had no plan, no formation." She looks at Carver in his linen shirt and breastplate, glancing down to his naked legs and feet. "Are you alright?"

Carver holds his shield before his crotch, at least covering up his smalls. "Yeah, they were not good fighters. Rabid dogs sounds about right."

He takes the helmet off of one of the corpses to look at them. The eyes are burned black from Solas' attack but he can still see that it was a woman, young, younger than him. Taking the helmet from the other corpse he reveals a young man, possibly even younger than the other. Gaunt cheeks without a hint of stubble and the armor too big for those narrow shoulders.

"He can't be more than a recruit," Cassandra says. "And the other is not much older. Why did they attack us?"

"Did anybody see their eyes?"

"I was a bit too busy not getting beheaded to look at their eyes," Varric says as he stomps over with his crossbow over his shoulder. He has boots on and something like a short skirt and nothing else.

Carver files a long list of questions about Varric's nightly routine away for later and turns to Cassandra. "Their eyes were black and red. As if they were possessed. And I tried talking to them but..."

"We have a captive. His eyes look normal," Cassandra says. "You may be able to talk to him."

"Me?"

"You're the Herald."

Carver stares at her and waits for her to explain herself but she just points her chin towards the campfire. Finally he shrugs and walks over to the group of Inquisition soldiers who stand with their swords drawn around a kneeling man in templar armor.

Varric chuckles next to him as they walk. "That's a convenient excuse for her, isn't it? 'You're the Herald' and wouldn't you know, you got yourself another job."

Carver nods and picks his way carefully with his naked feet. He should have gotten his boots but he doesn't want to turn around. The moon gives enough light to see where he can step but he flinches when a thorn nicks the new blister on his heel.

The young man on the ground with his hands bound hardly looks like a templar. If it weren't for the armor and the helmet next to him, he would have looked like any of the bandits they've met during the day. He looks like a fresh recruit, as young as the other boy who now lies dead, burned and twisted up on the hill. But his eyes look indeed normal.

"What's your name and what Chantry were you stationed at?" Carver asks when the other former templars make room for him.

The young man looks up. "Are you the Herald?"

Carver can hear a few snickers behind him and rolls his eyes. He knows he doesn't look very impressive in his smalls and shirt. Slipping his left hand out from the shield band, he holds the palm towards the man. Green light glows in the cut and he wills it to shine brighter for a moment. He doesn't have much control over the rift light but if he concentrates, he can influence it a bit.

"There, glowy hand, Herald of Andraste," he grunts at the young man. "Now talk."

"My name is Ferlen, I'm from a farm near Ostagar. Templar recruiters came through and I joined, wanted to get away from the pigs and all. But then... we never even saw a chantry, they just took us to a base in a ruin and... they had armor for us but — " he looks down his dented breastplate. "There was still blood on this when they gave it to me. And then they gave us earthen flasks that we should drink from, said it's our lyrium but we weren't even trained yet. I know you're supposed to give your vows before you get lyrium and..."

He shudders, curling in on himself. Carver makes a gesture to the others to put their swords away, Ferlen doesn't look dangerous.

"I poured some of it out and it didn't look like lyrium."

"You know what lyrium looks like?" Varric asks.

"Well it ain't red innit?"

"Not the normal kind, no," Varric says quietly.

"The others drank it and it changed them. They stopped talking, hardly slept or ate."

"Do you still have that flask?" Carver asks.

"Yes, there in my bag." The young man, barely more than a boy, folds in on himself again. "I'm so hungry."

Carver cuts the ties from his hands and helps him up. "I think there's some rabbit stew left, go eat that. Don't do anything stupid and you can come with us."

The boy bows as he kneels, his forehead touching the ground. "Thank you, thank you Herald."

Carver sighs and waits for the boy to go before he picks up the small bag and finds the earthen flask in it. He hasn't even touched it yet, but he already feels the corrupted lyrium in it, its song like a false tone in his head. The mark on his hand seems to sing against it and he quickly puts flask back into the bag.

"Do you think you can trust him?" Varric wonders.

"I'm not killing him and I'm not sending him out alone into the hills. Maker's arse, he's a kid, he knows less than nugshit about life out here."

Carver waves Cassandra over and shows her the flask in the bag. "They're giving them corrupted lyrium. It must mess with their minds."

"Turning them into mindless attackers," Cassandra says with shock in her voice.

"Rabid dogs don't ask questions."

Cassandra gives him a look before she nods. "I would like to ask him a few questions myself."

"Go ahead, he's eating the rest of the stew over there. His name is Ferlen, be nice to him." Carver stretches his arms behind his head and yawns. "Who has first watch?" He looks around and two former templars step forward. They look capeable and determined.

"Your names?"

"I'm Michelle, that's Gernlem, Serah. Piert had to go into the bushes for a bit but he'll be on guard too."

Carver yawns again and gives a half hearted salut with his fist on his chest. "Good. Wake me for second watch."

"But Serah, you're the Herald."

"I take second watch with the others and that's it." Carver glares at Michelle until she nods.

"Understood, Serah."

Carver tiptoes back to his pack and lies down with a groan. His feet hurt but the bone deep tiredness comes from something else. Sleep is merciful and takes him quickly.

*~~~(())~~~*

The world is not quite right. Walls are around him, tinted by green fog and he steps on familiar cobblestones that disappear when he lifts his feet. He looks up to the sky but it isn't the right color. The world seems to wobble around the edges, sections disappearing when he doesn't look at them.

He knows this place, it's the Alienage in Lowtown in Kirkwall. This is the way to Merrill's home. But when he steps into the square with the tree, it changes into a forest. The Lowtown tree is still there, right in the middle, surrounded by younger trees. Merrill and him had often sat under this tree, sharing their lunch.

She had kissed him there, under the one thick branch that gave them shade in the sun. New roots have grown from the ground but he soon finds that part of the tree again. White flowers grow on the branch, giving off a sweet smell. He parts two bushes to get closer and stops and stares.

There, in the exact same spot where she'd kissed him, sits Merrill.

She looks away from him and flowers from the tree branch adorn her head like a crown. Carver steps through the bushes and tiptoes towards her, afraid that any sound might destroy this mirage. He just wants to see her face, just once.

As if she can feel him approach, she suddenly turns around and a smile spreads on her face. "Carver!"

"Merrill?" He can't believe that she's real.

She jumps up and flies into his arms. "Vhenan, you're here."

He holds her and she feels real and all doubt leaves his mind. The way she smiles up to him makes his heart sing and he leans down and captures her lips in a kiss. Her hands go to his neck and she pulls him closer as she kisses him back, her sweet lips opening for him.

After endless time she pulls back and looks at him. Flower petals rain down all around them like snow.

"Vhenan," she says with a curious smile, "what are you doing in my dream?"


	8. Chapter 8

_A short chapter today but chapters are as long as they want, right?_

 _Have some Carver and Merrill!_

* * *

"What do you mean _your_ dream?" Carver asks. "This could just as well be my dream."

A flower petal floats onto Merrill's head. He picks it up between his fingertips, feeling its silky texture.

Merrill smiles at him. "Do you often dream of flowers?"

"Well, I don't remember my dreams most of the time." The flower petal turns into a butterfly and flies away.

Merrill puts her hand on his cheek and whispers, "Ma I've'an'virelan, ma vhenan."

Carver leans into her touch. "What does that mean?"

Merrill giggles at that. "If this were _your_ dream, you would know. The dream can only use your own memory."

Carver traces her lips with his thumb, lost in her eyes. "But how do you know that I'm not just part of your memory?"

"When I dream of you, you're usually naked."

Carver feels his face heat up. "You dream of me naked?"

"Sometimes?" She giggles again and something in his chest snaps free.

"Merrill," he whispers like a prayer and leans down to kiss her again.

She meets him halfway, standing on her tiptoes and then she pulls him down and the ground shifts and the tree moves and they're lying in soft moss. She wraps her arms around him and throws her leg over his hip and kisses him again.

Her lips, soft but demanding have him shiver under his armor. When she lets go of him, it feels like he can breathe for the first time.

Merrill lies back on his arm with a happy sigh. "I think this is a bit more my dream than yours. I doubt that you've ever seen moss like this."

The moss feels soft like velvet and is bright green. Little pink flowers peek out from it. A circle of light holds the moss in place, separating it from the dark, unreal looking world around them.

Carver digs his fingers into the soft moss. "So if I'm dreaming and you're dreaming, how are we both here?"

"This is the Fade." Merrill points up to the sky and Carver follows her eyes. The sky looks like a storm in green clouds, rolling over their heads. But it's silent. In fact, everything is much too quiet. The only sound is a drone in the background that seems to be in tune with the lyrium in his veins.

"I've never been in the Fade," Carver says. "I'm not a mage."

"Maybe it has something to do with your hand?" Merrill points at his left hand and Carver notices for the first time that the mark doesn't hurt. He holds it up to inspect it. It looks very different. Instead of the harsh cut in the palm of his hand and the erratic light that lashes out of it, the green light now looks soft. Tendrils like gossamer threads wind around his hand, soft and caressing. In the dim light of the Fade, the green threads look lively and promising.

"Is that your Herald hand?"

"Yes, but it usually doesn't look like this." He closes his fist, watching the gossamer tendrils curl around it. When he opens his hand again, it looks like a flower opening up. "As if it's angry outside of the Fade."

Merrill takes his marked hand in hers and draws her finger through the gossamer light. It reacts to her, following her movements, wrapping around her finger and turning away again like tiny dancers.

Merrill smiles. "It's so pretty." She strokes over his hand and bumps against the armguard. "What's this armor you're wearing?"

Carver looks down on himself. "That's not my armor." At least it isn't the glittery golden thing he wears in the real world.

"No," Merrill says, tracing the griffon symbol on his chest plate. "That's the symbol of the Grey Wardens, is it not?"

"Yes, it is." It's the traditional Warden armor, blue and silver decorations on heavy plate. He can tell that this is a dream because the armor feels light and soft like linens. "Why am I wearing Warden armor?"

"Sometimes the light inside of you wants to tell you something. The Fade shows it to you."

"The Wardens..." Something nags in the back of Carver's mind but he can't grasp it. "The Grey Wardens..."

"Did you want to be a Warden when you grew up?" Merrill looks up to him with her pale green eyes and he completely forgets the thought that wants to come up in his mind.

"The Wardens always looked so dashing but so sad," Merrill says. "Isabela always went on about their stamina but why would that be good for you when you're sad all the time?" She strokes over the silver and blue armguard and Carver feels her touch on his skin as if the armguard isn't there. "But I like the blue, it looks good on you. You would have made a fine Warden."

Carver leans up and studies her face. He traces the lines on her face with his fingertip, commiting the pattern to memory. "I've missed you so much," he says.

"I've missed you too, ma vhenan." Merrill sits up and takes his marked hand. The green tendrils of light wind around her hand and stretch towards her face. Where they touch her skin, the gossamer threads light up. "It's beautiful."

"I've never seen it like this, it's so... harsh in the real world." Carver turns his hand and they watch the light swirl around until it settles again. He looks back to her face. She studies his mark with wonder but there is that inquisitiveness in her face that he remembers from when she worked on her mirror.

A change in tone around them has Carver and Merrill look up at the same time. A rock is floating above them and the drone in the background has turned grating, out of tune. "What is happening?" Carver asks.

Merrill stares at a spot in the distance. "I think you'll have to go."

"Why, what is it?" He can make out a figure in the background, walking under floating rocks. The trees make room for him where he passes.

"I've seen him a few times. I don't know who he is but he walks the Fade. A somniari. He hasn't found me yet but I think he's looking for us now."

Carver watches the figure. The Fade distorts the image, at times it looks like a four-legged animal walking, at other times like a tall man.

"What will happen if he finds us?"

Merrill moves her hand in a pattern and light flows from her hands into the moss. Flowery veins grow up, forming a shield to hide them. "I'm not sure but I'm worried about you. You shouldn't be here, you're not a mage."

Carver looks around. Their mossy little oasis with flowers and butterflies is frayed at the edges and rapidly shrinks.

"Spirits are curious about the waking world and when they find you... I'm not sure anymore what they'll do, the Fade has changed since the Breach." Merrill still moves her hand in a quiet dance and the veins twist into a thicker curtain.

But as Carver looks through a gap towards the distorted image, the figure turns abruptly, glowing white eyes fixating on him.

Merrill pulls him back, panic in her eyes. "You have to wake up."

"But you... ," Carver reaches out to her but she's already fading.

"I'll find you again, vhenan," Merrill says, her hand reaching for his face but not touching him. "Wake up now."

"Merrill!" he calls to her.

"Carver! Wake up!"

His own breath punches into his chest and he sits up on a swallowed scream. Tarp flaps softly in the wind and the light of the fire shines through into his tent.

"Merrill," he breathes out. "Merrill."


	9. Chapter 9

Gasping for breath, Carver feels the memories drifting away and he grasps what he can recall: Merrill smiling, green light, floating rocks, butterflies, Warden armor, hollow sounds, white eyes.

The tarp of the tent flaps softly in the wind and through the gap he can see the fire. He gets up, his heart is beating too fast to sleep anyway and he needs time to think. Putting on all his clothes and armor — not again will he risk being caught fighting in his smalls — gives him enough time to calm his breath.

Merrill. He has seen Merrill. Kissed her!

It had been the Fade but it had felt so real.

Outside, the second moon has risen, giving the night a sharp silver light with inky black shadows. The fire with its yellow flicker looks like it doesn't belong in this world of dark shadows.

The guard next to his tent, Michelle, nods at him and gives a hand signal to another guard in templar armor. The newly painted inquisition symbol on their chests stands out white in the moonlight. Carver walks towards the fire to drink a ladle of water from the leather skin. He listens to the sounds of the night, the crackling of the fire, the scurrying of small animals in the bushes, the call of an owl somewhere above him. He has missed this the most in Kirkwall, the quiet sounds of nature. There wasn't a single night at the Gallows where you could hear something as innocent as the hooting of an owl.

Just outside of the light of the fire, the owl sweeps down and the squeak of an animal pulls him out of his reminiscence. Maybe life out here actually isn't quite so peaceful.

Carver steps back into the darkness, waiting a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He flexes his left hand, focussing on the green light in his palm. Gone are the soft tendrils of light, once again it flickers with sharp spikes, even hisses as he wills it to light up.

Making his way around the camp, he passes the tents. Snoring comes from Cassandra's and Varric's tents, both in a similar rhythm and he grins to himself. He's pretty sure that both would deny that they snore in tune.

One small tent sits further outside of the camp, it's barely more than a tarp hung over a rope. But looking straight at it, it melts into the background, as if it's not even there. Carver steps closer. Something creeps up his legs, cold and thorny and the tent shifts again. He knows this feeling, he has crossed a magical ward. Even though Circle mages were forbidden to set them up on their own, they did practice them sometimes, under a close watch by templars. Carver remembers how it felt to cross a ward like that, how it made it difficult to move, but this is no ward from a Circle mage. The very air traps his legs where he stands, he can hardly move and nausea crawls up his throat.

Carver draws a deep breath and calls upon his templar powers to nullify the magic in the ward. A blast of Spell Purge frees his feet and he steps closer to the shifting tent, only to be caught in another ward again. He fights, gathering the power of the lyrium in his veins when with a jolt, the wards disappear. He stumbles, almost falls flat on his face from the sudden lack of resistance in the air.

Solas steps out of the perfectly normal looking tent, a frown on his forehead.

Carver shakes off the retreating nausea. "What in the Maker's name was that?"

"I apologize," Solas says with a curt bow. "Whenever I venture into the Fade, I set up wards to protect myself. My travels take me deep into the Fade, my body would be vulnerable in the waking world without the protection."

"Those were some impressive wards," Carver says, keeping an eye on the tarp innocently flapping in the wind. The way it tried to disappear from his vision as he approached it, deeply unnerves him. One should be able to trust what one sees.

"As I said before, my knowledge of magic exceeds what your average Circle mage is allowed to learn."

"You always set up these kind of wards when you go to sleep?"

"It is necessary that I protect my sleeping form."

Carver flexes his Herald hand again, remembering how it had looked in the Fade. "When you enter the Fade, what exactly are you doing there?"

"As a non-mage, such things may be difficult to imagine," Solas says with a smile that reads more condescending than friendly to Carver. "I've journeyed deep into the Fade, in ancient ruins and battlefields, to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clashed to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."

"Can you interact with those spirits?"

Solas looks at him and for a moment the smile on his face disappears. "What strange questions you ask." His smile returns, a little too quickly, and he lowers his head. "Mostly I'm just watching how ancient heroes have fought in the past. Every great war has its heroes. I'm curious what kind you'll be."

"Aren't we all," Carver says quietly, more to himself than to Solas. "Those places you visit in the Fade, they were once real?"

"As real as all we see. Battlefields steeped in death, ancient buildings that withstood the rigors of time. They all attract spirits. These spirits press against the veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I find memories no other living being has ever seen."

Carver keeps looking at his Herald hand, willing the green light to glow. It sparks and twitches. "Do you ever meet people you know in the Fade?"

Solas glances at him with a frown. "Spirits and demons live in the Fade, not real people. I find remnants of dreams, sometimes thousands of years old, memories of great wars and warriors and the thrill..." He let's the sentence trail off. "I have not known templars to ask me questions like that."

"I'm not a templar anymore."

"Your inquisitiveness is commendable — "

"I was in the Fade last night," Carver interrupts him.

"The Fade is unlike any dream a non-mage like you could know," Solas says with another polite incline of his head.

"I know," Carver says. "But it wasn't a dream, it was the Fade and I..."

"That's impossible," Solas shouts, suddenly appearing to be taller, imposing even, staring him down. "You're not a mage. The Fade is not open to you."

"Trust me, I'm well aware." Carver holds Solas' gaze and the mage returns to his normal, unimposing self again. Once again, Carver has to question how much he can trust his own eyes. "I met my... I met a... a friend in the Fade."

"A spirit?" Solas asks softly.

"No, a person, a very good friend, a mage. I spoke to her."

Solas studies him as if he sees him for the first time. He takes hold of Carver's glowing hand and his magic brushes against the mark like an invisible touch.

"I must admit," Solas says, "I find this most unsettling. As much as I have studied your mark, a Fade connection has never occured to me."

"Do you think it'll happen again?"

Solas still stares at Carver's marked hand, his eyes glassy as he is deep in thought. "I am unable to say. It will require further study."

He turns abruptly and walks back to his tent.

"What, now? Are you going back into the Fade?" Carver calls after him.

"I must. I need to research this. If the veil is so thin in this area..." Solas waves his hand in a complicated form. "I'm setting up my wards again but they will not affect you."

Carver still takes two steps back. The feeling of being held by thorny air is still fresh in his mind and he doesn't want to repeat the experience so soon. In front of his feet, wards glow in white patterns on the ground for a moment and disappear again.

"Don't take too long though, I'm relieving that guard over there for now. But the sun will come up soon and then we'll have to get going."

"You can leave me here, I'll be protected."

Carver shakes his head. "Ehm, no, sorry, but you're our only mage in this whole magical craziness. I need you with us."

The frown on Solas' forehead softens and he inclines his head towards Carver. "Very well. Please wake me when we pack up." With that he ducks under the tarp and white patterns light up all over it.

Carver walks over to the guard, who is about to fall asleep where he stands, and orders him to take some rest. When he looks back to Solas' tent, it seems to try to disappear again.

Not being able to trust his own eyes has become an unnerving new normal for him.

*~~~(())~~~*

It takes them another two days of traipsing through the countryside to get close to the Crossroads, interrupted by various bandits, brainwashed templars and even a group of mages. Lost circle mages in this case, starved and barely able to take care of themselves. They quickly abandon the idea of attacking them for the promise of protection and soup.

Having a group of mages with them, brings a whole new slew of problems with it. Even it they're inquisition soldiers now, their guards with the blinding white Inquisition symbol on their cuirasses have been templars for most of their lives. They have accepted Solas so far, for reasons Carver doesn't quite understand, but the circle mages somehow bring out the worst in them.

"Herald, the mages refuse to stay in their assigned section of the..."

"Fucking void, Gernlem," Carver interrupts the young guard, "they're not prisoners, they can go where they want."

"But what if..."

"What if what? What if they do magic?" This is the third time someone has complained to him about the mages and Carver has quite enough of it. "They've been doing magic for as long as you have been swinging that sword, they won't encase you in ice, unless you ask for it."

"But Serah..."

"Just be on watch and let the mages be."

The young man bows, hiding his face behind his shield. "Yes, Herald, as you say." He salutes and turns back to the trek.

Varric appears at Carver's side. "A word, Junior?"

"What?" Irritation makes his voice sound hard and he isn't even sure why he is so angry.

"Save your breath, I'm not here to tell you what to do."

Carver stops walking and stretches his back. "I'm sorry. You know, I would love to have someone tell me what to do for a change."

Varric pulls Carver to the side and hands him a waterskin. The trek of Inquisition soldiers and mages slowly moves past them as they drink. Cassandra glares at them but keeps on walking.

"Junior, not everyone is as easy around mages as you are. You've lived with apostates for as long as you remember. But a kid like that, all he's been told is that mages will kill him if he doesn't smite them first."

"Shit." Carver kicks a rock, causing a fennec to run away with its long ears flapping. "All this fear and now with the Breach, people gonna start killing each other." The last group of inquisition soldiers trots past them and they follow them at a distance.

Varric hurries to keep up with him. "Carver, you're working against hundreds of years of chantry doctrine. 'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him' and all that. You have to give people some time."

"I don't know if we have that much time," Carver says. "I'm gonna have to talk to Gernlem, am I?"

"Afraid so."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime, Junior."

Carver hurries to catch up to the young man, Gernlem, who trots after the trek with his head hanging low.

"Gernlem, can we talk for a moment?"

"Yes, Herald." The young man bows his head respectfully and falls into step with Carver.

"I know this is difficult and it goes against everything you know but I want the Inquisition to be a place where everybody is welcome. This will not be a new chantry and templar order."

"But as templars, it's our divine right..."

"We're not templars anymore."

"Of course, Herald, I just... I don't know how else to do this." Gernlem looks truly troubled, not malicious, as his worldview crumbles around him.

Carver puts a hand on his shoulder, metal gauntlet scraping against templar shoulderguard. "I understand, really, but you have to see mages as people like you and me. Your job here is to protect everyone, no matter who or what they are."

"What if one loses control?"

"Then you'll do what is necessary to protect everyone. And I mean everyone," Carver says. "My father was a mage, my two sisters are both mages and yet I still live. An angry man or woman with a sword is just as dangerous as an angry man or woman with magic. We'll have to find a way to live peacefully together."

Gernlem nods slowly. "There was a boy, worked as a stable boy on our farm and one day, my father caught him doing magic and had him taken away by templars. He was just putting some ice on my sister's ankle, she'd tripped and sprained it and he was just helping. A few hours later, he was gone, we had noone to work the stables and my sister couldn't walk for days and was crying all the time."

"And you thought it was right."

The young ex-templar looks up to him. "Yes, everybody said so."

Carver sighs again and rubs his temples. "I understand that his goes against everything you've learned. Andraste's arse, I've learned all this too. But we can't keep going on like this, fighting among each other."

Gernlem turns his helmet in his hands. "It's just... I've lost friends in this mage war you know and now they look at me like... like..."

"Like they've lost friends too? They probably have."

Gernlem is silent for a long time, his helmet turning and turning as he keeps walking. Finally, he looks up. "You're the Herald of Andraste. If this is the path you think we should go, then I will follow you."

"Thank you," Carver says, hiding his discomfort at being addressed like that.

Gernlem bows and then hurries to join the other ex-templars.

Varric comes to his side with a chuckle. "Have you told Cassandra of your grand plans for the Inquisition yet?"

"Not in all details."

This time Varric laughs out. "Oh, please let me be there when you do, I want to see her reaction."

Carver ignores his remark.

But Varric can't let up. "I'm so glad that the Herald of Andraste knows the path."

"Shut up," Carver grunts at him. "I'm not even sure about the path to the forward scout camp."

"We'll get there, Junior, we'll get there."

They only get lost once on the way.

*~~~(())~~~*

The scout camp sits atop a beautiful hill, with sturdy tents built in the shade of old trees. A pretty dwarf lady with a captivating smile greets them as they drag themselves into the camp on sore feet.

"The Herald of Andraste, a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Lace Harding," she says, looking amused as Carver more or less falls to the ground, pulling his boots from his feet. "I see you had a tough journey."

Carver groans. "I haven't walked this much in the last ten years combined, I'm sure. My blisters have blisters."

"We have ointment and potions here," Scout Harding says and turns to a sturdy table at the side. "Some elfroot salve should help but please use it sparingly, we're almost out of elfroot."

Cassandra leans her shield against a tent and unlaces her boots as well. Her feet also bear the marks of the long walk. "We have elfroot with us," she says as she sits down on a log. "The Herald insisted on collecting it whenever we came across it."

"Good thinking, Herald," Harding says.

Carver puts his sword and shield to the side and lies back, stretching out his sore back muscles. "Why do you all have to call me The Herald? My name is Carver."

"I find myself incapable of calling you by that name," Cassandra says, "I could call you Hawke?"

"Oh void, no, that's my sister." Carver shakes his head. He unties a cloth bag from his hip and holds it out for Harding to pick up. "That's the elfroot, it should still be good."

"I see that you know what you're doing," Harding says.

"I saw people who survived the battle of Ostagar, only to die from an infection because we didn't have any elfroot." He closes his eyes, letting the memories of that cursed battle wash over him.

"Your group is larger than we expected." Harding has climbed on a rock to look over everyone.

"We picked up a group of circle mages, who have agreed to join us," Cassandra explains. "They are not used to living outside of the Circle's routine and protection."

Carver bristles at calling the Circle a protection but he's too tired to argue.

He wakes to the smell of fresh stew.

"Herald," Cassandra says next to him, holding out a bowl of stew.

Carver sits up and digs into the food before he is even fully awake. "Thank you," he mumbles between spoonfuls of thick stew. His feet feel much better but he doesn't look forward to putting his boots back on.

With the stew settling in his stomach and some fresh water to drink, Carver begins to feel like a person again. He waves Scout Harding over, who is engaged in a conversation with Varric but doesn't look quite happy about it.

"Yes, Herald?" she says, leaving a strangely flustered Varric behind.

"Did Varric bother you?"

"No, he just asked if I've ever been in Kirkwall, cause then I would be Harding in Hightown, and I'm not sure what he means by that."

"I swear, his jokes are usually better than that, you must make him nervous."

Lace Harding snickers at that and blushes adorably.

Carver treats himself to a fresh pair of socks and begins the dreaded process of putting his boots back on. The elfroot salve and a minor health potion have helped to heal his feet and other scrapes and bruises but with the distances they have to cover, his feet will hurt again soon enough.

"Harding, in the long run... oh the irony," he says with a chuckle, "in the long run we can't run this Inquisition by running on foot all the time."

"Hah, good one, Junior, let me write that down," Varric says as he comes over.

Scout Harding also laughs. "Sister Nightingale never said that you're funny."

"I have my moments." He pulls the laces of his boots tight and his surprised how well the elfroot salve has worked. At least for now, he can walk pain free. "We need horses for the Inquisition, do you know where we could get some? Preferably as a donation."

Harding nods thoughtfully. "I see. Around here we say that Master Dennet has the best horses. Hardy, fereldan breeds. He might be open to help the Inquisition if the Inquisition helps in securing the village." She points down the hill. "Down there is the King's Highway, if the wind stands right, you can hear the fighting all the way up here. The village has been safe so far but rogue templars and rebel mages are moving along the highway towards Redcliffe Castle. It's only a matter of time until the village is drawn into the conflict."

Carver nods and adjusts his armor. "Please send a raven to Sister Nightingale that we're going to talk to Master Dennet about horses. But first we have to get to the Crossroads and I'm supposed to speak to this Mother Giselle."

"She's helping the refugees at the Crossroads," Harding says. "She's supposed to have influence on whatever has remained of the chantry but she's truly a good person, doing what is right."

"I don't care much for the chantry but we need helpers like her," Carver says. "People out here have to see that the Inquisition helps everybody, mages and non-mages."

Scout Harding looks at him with interest. "Is that your plan for the Inquisition?"

Varric chuckles quietly. "Junior here keeps surprising us all the time."

Carver stretches his neck, trying to shake of the tiredness from the travel. "I only hope this won't go up in flames around me."

"I'll keep Cassandra away from the matches," Varric says with a straight face.

"Very helpful, Varric."


	10. Chapter 10

Cassandra comes up to him, her armor padded with grey and white fur. "I apologize, Herald, that I couldn't provide you with appropriate furs for this climate."

Carver shakes his head. "This cold is unusual, nobody could have known that we need such warm clothes. As far as I know, at this time of the year, this area is usually nice and pleasant if a bit rainy."

Varric joins them on the trampled path, just wide enough for the mule and the cart, that leads them in a curve around a mountain ridge. They left most of their templar squad at the Crossroads to protect the refugee camp and only took six of them out here into the country. Two of them are archers and are currently hunting and shooting rams to provide food for the refugee camp.

The list of things that Carver has agreed to do for the refugees has gotten so long, he had to borrow Varric's ink and paper to write it all down. On top of that list is food, preferably ram's meat because it can be smoked and made to last longer. The second point is blankets and coats. It makes Carver deeply uncomfortable to search abandoned farm houses for these things but they need them and they can hardly go into a store and buy them, out here in the country. If they even had the money.

"Varric, I never thought I'd see the day where you cover up that chest hair," Carver says with a grin.

"It pains me, Junior, it really does. Depriving Cassandra of that lovely view seems to be too cruel for words."

Cassandra groans bitterly, a noise that has become quite familiar by now. Especially Varric draws her disapproval quite often and it only seems to encourage him.

"Herald, I think we have enough rams for now, the cart might get too heavy," Cassandra says, pointing at the pile of animals on the rather rickety cart.

"Yes, I agree." Carver looks along the path. "I think there's a farm over there. Let's check there for resources and then we'll send the cart back. And then... we have to find this horse master."

Varric sighs and looks up to Carver with a pained smile. "You know, as much as I hate walking in all this annoying nature, have you ever seen a dwarf on a horse?"

"No, but I'm looking forward to it," Carver says, fighting not to show a grin on his face.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, make fun of the dwarf, why don't you?"

Someone snorts with a giggle behind them and as Carver and Varric turn around, they catch Cassandra, deep red in the face, unsuccessfully suppressing a giggle with her hand to her mouth.

"You too, Seeker?" Varric calls out, clutching his chest. His hand sinks into the heavy scarf which makes it look less dramatic but it's still enough to send the Seeker into an embarrassed stutter.

"I apologize, I did not mean to..."

Carver interrupts her. "Don't apologize, he's just messing with you."

Cassandra harrumphs, muttering something like "I should have known," and turns on the spot to get away from them.

"Darn, I shouldn't have done that," Varric says and shakes his head. "I think she was just starting to like me."

Carver grins at him. "That may be too much to hope for, but who can say?"

"You mean my famous charms are no sure path to the Seeker's heart?"

"You're the expert here, aren't you?" Carver flexes his hands. "I'm sticking to demons and glowing hands, rather than giving you advice in how to charm the Seeker."

Carver walks up to the farm house, looking for signs of occupation. The garden seems to have been neglected weeks ago, dry leaves crinkling as he walks through to the front door. He knocks, out of general politeness, not because he expects anyone to answer. The door opens easily and Carver quickly searches through chests for clothing and wraps everything in the blankets on the bed.

"There's a letter here," Varric says quietly.

Carver stops packing. "Does it say that they will be back?"

Varric shakes his head. "The guy calls himself Hyndel and he writes to his father:

 _I'm going into the mountains to join the people up there. They're making sense right now, when the rest of the world is not. We can't tend the fields since Master Dennet and his wife sent us all away for safety, and I can't just stay here and watch the refugees starve outside our home.  
You and Mother should come, Father. You'll be safe up there. The mages have no quarrel with the people in the mountains, and even the templars don't harass them. Nowhere else outside of Redcliffe is safe from this Maker-cursed war or the demons pouring out of the sky. _

And then some angry remarks how they won't give up their land and will end up as burned corpses."

"Morbid," Carver says and continues piling clothes onto the blankets. "I wonder who that is, the people in the mountains?"

"Damned if I know, could be dwarfs?" Varric shudders. "Not that I understand that mountain obsession myself but it's a thing for a lot of dwarfs."

They leave the small house and Carver adds the pile of blankets and clothes to the cart and sends it on its way. With the soldiers gone to protect cart, they are now down to one archer and two warriors, in addition to Solas, Cassandra and Varric.

Cassandra studies the map Scout Harding has given them. It's not very detailed and she had asked them to add landmarks and pathways to it as they discover them. "I think, if we follow this mountain ridge, we should find a good place to establish a camp there by the river." Cassandra points to a squiggly line that someone seems to have added to the map with an uncertain hand. "The Redcliffe farms should be close by that river."

Carver agrees and jumps back down towards the path they had been walking on, finding his footing, when something makes him stop. The back of his neck prickles, the hairs standing up. He doesn't need to look at his Herald-hand to know that the mark has started to hiss and glow again.

Solas appears at his side, his magic drawing a blue pattern on the ground with every step. "There's a rift close by."

"I can feel it too." Carver holds his hand up, the green light breaking out of the cut in his palm like a tiny explosion. "What do you think we can expect? Another giant Pride Demon like with the big one?"

Solas draws a shape in the air and a tiny light floats away like a moth. He closes his eyes, a frown on his forehead as he concentrates. "They are waiting. Demons and wraiths, drawing power from the rift, from the Fade into our world." Solas lets his hand sink and his frown evens out. "I would assume that the power is not enough to support a Pride Demon. But you're right to be careful."

"What if we come across a rift where the demons are too strong for me and the mark?" Carver watches Solas closely. His reactions are always so very controlled and he wonders if the mage hides more than he lets on.

"The mark..." Solas looks up to Carver. "It's not killing you anymore but it is changing. I can feel its magic adapt, gathering strength and finesse from you. It is adapting to you as much as you are adapting to it."

"You mean it could get stronger?"

"More capable, I might call it. As your focus improves, your abilities will increase. The mark," he takes his Herald-hand in his and strokes his finger over the glowing cut, gentle like a lovers caress, "it grows stronger with you."

Carver has the distinct feeling that Solas is not saying everything he could say. But before he can pry any further, the rift changes and the ominous drone draws everyone's attention to it.

Demons rise from the ground and Cassandra draws her sword and runs to it, followed by the three Inquisition soldiers.

"No, no, wait!" Carver calls after them but it's too late. Cassandra and the soldiers are already attacking the first demons, only the archer staying a few paces back. Carver directs Varric to a high rise with a quick gesture and feels more than sees that Solas has already placed a ward glyph on the ground and stays to attack from the back.

Cassandra is decimating a demon quite efficiently but the young soldiers are trapped between two demons and getting hit with green magic bolts from wraiths. Carver runs towards them, cutting the first demon from head to slithering base and shoves the inexperienced soldier out of the way to attack the other. Solas' electric flashes keep the wraiths at bay but as he strikes the demon down, three others rise from the ground next to him.

"Herald!" Cassandra cries out and rushes to his side.

The energy of the rift is crawling cold up his neck and he raises his shield as he hacks at the demon in front of him, to let the mark work on the rift. But Cassandra pushes him and as he stumbles, he loses the connection of light to the rift.

"What in the...?" Carver yells as he turns to her, only to realize that she saved him from getting swallowed by a fiery demon.

"Herald, the rift!" Solas yells from behind, his face tight in concentration.

Carver jumps away from the fight, focusses on the rift and throws whatever his Herald-hand gives him against the rift. It screeches, disformations rippling over the crystalline shape and with a snapping sound it turns into green fog. In the same moment, the demons shrink, their movements halted and the wraiths disappear.

Solas comes closer, wards stretching out around his feet, making the demons hiss and shriek when they touch them. "They are weakened now but it won't last long."

"Spread out!" Carver orders as he hits the demon hovering next to him. "We hinder each other like this."

"But we have to protect you." Cassandra stares at him, furiously plunging her sword into a demon until it goes down.

"I can't close the rift if you all trap me."

"But you are — "

"Hey!" Varric cocks his crossbow. "It's changing again."

Solas moves back, readying ice-blue magic in his hand.

The ground breaks up in several places, green fog rushing out of it. "Spread out," Carver orders again, "watch those things."

Cassandra looks like she wants to disagree again but Varric interrupts her. "I'll protect him, Seeker."

The loud hum drones in their ears and the rift turns into a crystal again. This time, the fight works better, his companions keeping the demons busy so that Carver can get close to the rift and focus the golden lightning from his hand on it. Varric's bolts whirr past his head and hit a demon that tries to break his concentration. With a final pull, the crystal flies apart and the rift closes.

Carver takes his helmet off and wipes sweat from his forehead. His whole arm is aching, even though the mark has shrunk back down to a green glowing cut.

Cassandra comes up to him. "Are you alright?"

Carver glares at her. "Yes, Andraste's arse, what were you thinking?"

Cassandra recoils, snarling at him. "You are the Herald and our only chance to close the rift. I will not risk— "

"Alright!" Carver scrapes together all the calm he has stored away somewhere in the back of his mind. "I apologize for snapping at you. But you have to agree that this was a bad fight, we weren't efficient, we weren't coordinated and by the void! We were lucky that we didn't lose anybody." He looks around at the sudden silence. "We didn't, did we?"

Everyone looks around, counting the others and checking their own limbs for functionality by shaking them. It looks like a marionette player had to sneeze.

"Jem here got a bit of a burn," the archer says. The soldier in question glares at her and shakes his head.

"It's not to worry, just a bit of demon acid." He holds out his arm and Cassandra grabs elfroot salve from her pack. The acid has crawled into the gap of his arm guards and Carver makes him take it all off to wash the acid out.

A small spring nearby seems a good place as any to rest, fill up the waterskins and clean everyone's armor from demon residue. The water is fresh and clean and a few sweet berries nearby are a welcome snack.

Carver sits down next to Cassandra and waves Varric and Solas over to them. "We need a strategy."

"I agree," Cassandra says, "and I apologize for running into the fray like that. I must admit, it has been a while that I had to coordinate my fighting with anybody else."

"You and me, we're used to run out in front as vanguards," Carver says.

"The rift forces us into a circular battlefield," Solas says. "Demons and wraiths can shift, disappear and appear elsewhere."

"A frontal approach makes no sense," Cassandra says. "And it's too dangerous for the Herald."

"I'm right here, you know?" Carver says, popping another berry into his mouth.

Cassandra draws a circle in the dirt with a stick and scratches a crude star in the center. "First and foremost, the Herald has to get to the rift."

"I agree," Solas says with a strange air of authority around him. "Whenever Carver focuses the mark on the rift, it weakens the creatures from the Fade."

Varric nods. "That's an advantage we shouldn't lose sight of. We're ass deep in demons as it is, who knows what else can come through these rifts."

Cassandra draws three dots around the circle in the dirt. "We have two archers and one mage, they attack the creatures from the outside. The Herald and one or two protectors move towards the center until the mark can interact with the rift."

"Two protectors at least, three if possible." Carver waves the three young soldiers over and explains what the drawing means.

The archer nods as she sees her position and the other two look at Carver, waiting for their orders.

"What are you trained as?" Carver asks them. "And tell me your names."

"Name's Lupas, I'm best with sword and shield," says the taller one, his wide shoulders telling of his training.

The other soldier is smaller, more lithe, and he pulls out two long daggers. "Jemmeny, I got some rogue training. But I'm good with a sword too."

"Alright." Carver looks at the drawing again and then at Cassandra. "If rifts are close by, I can sense them, Solas as well. That gives us time to prepare."

Cassandra inclines her head. "I will wait for your command, Herald."

Carver gives a curt nod and is relieved to see a rare smile on Cassandra's face. He turns to the map again. "Long range fighters take up position around the rift, the rest, we go in diamond formation towards the rift. Cassandra on my left, I can't protect myself on the left when I'm busy with the rift, Lupas on my right. Jemmeny behind us." He looks at the young man. "You're our eyes in the back, you speak up when shit comes your way."

"Yes, Sir."

Carver stands up and tightens the straps of his armor. "Suit up and let's find the farms and Master Dennet. I want a damn horse."

*~~~(())~~~*

Of course, it couldn't possibly be easy for once. They find the cluster of farmhouses soon after leaving the spring but Master Dennet drives a hard bargain for the horses. He wants them to find positions for watchtowers to secure the area and his wife demands that they deal with a horde of wolves who keep attacking the farms.

At least they can use resources from the deserted houses to set up a camp by the river. Carver groans when he pulls off his boots and lies back. It's only supposed to be a short break and he's convinced that he can't sleep but the soft tingling of the water stream lulls him into a deep sleep.

"Herald, Ser."

"Whua?" Carver wakes with a start. Images are fleeing from his mind, nothing he quite recognizes but the feeling is familiar.

"Ser Herald, you said to wake you before midday."

"Thanks," he grumbles and stumbles over to the small fire.

Hunger gnaws in Carver's stomach, familiar hunger that cannot be stilled by the bread and cheese Varric hands to him. He tries to ignore it but it burns like acid, making it hard to think.

Varric looks at him with a frown. "What's the matter, Junior?"

"Hunger." Carver holds his hands on his stomach, trying to calm his innards and also to hide the tremor of his hands.

"You want more bread?"

"Not that kind of hunger."

Varric stares at him for a moment until understanding dawns on his face. "Oh, that hunger. Don't you have lyrium with you?"

"Yes, but..."

Varric sits down next to him and waits.

Carver breathes against the hunger and wills his hands to stop trembling. "I thought without the chantry supplying us with templar vials, it would be better to save up. And also — " he flexes his Herald-hand, watching the green light lick the edges of the cut. "We don't know how the mark interacts with the lyrium. What if it weakens it, what if the mark could be stronger?"

Varric nods, taking a few moments to answer. "Carver, those are all good thoughts but out here in the fields? Not a good place or point in time to test that. Once we're back in Haven, I'll send out a few letters to people I know, I'm sure we can get our hands on templar vials, bypassing the chantry."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Now, take your lyrium, we need you sharp for the next batch of demons." Varric looks around, his eyes following a raven flying past them. "When we're back in Haven, let's have a chat with Cassandra about how to best get you off the stuff, without the worst of the withdrawal."

Carver nods and feels around in his pocket for the reassuring shape of the vial. "You know about the withdrawal?"

Varric nods. "You ever heard of Samson when you were in the Gallows?"

"Knight-Commander Meredith kicked him out before I got there. I think he was helping a mage, smuggled out his letters."

"Hawke ran into him at some point, he was helping mages to find places to hide from templars. I saw him after the Deep Roads expedition, he was..." Varric gives him a look. "He was not in good shape. Forgot his own name sometimes, he was rambling, shouting at nothing, he... Junior, I wouldn't wish that on my enemy and definitely not on you."

Carver holds out the small vial. The liquid glows softly in blue and his hunger screams for it. He quickly opens it and drinks it down, letting it run down his throat like liquid ice. The world falls silent for a moment and then slams back into his mind, all his senses hyper aware, noise thrashing down on him, light eating his eyes. He gnashes his teeth until the sensations recede and the world goes back to normal.

Varric watches him, concerned. "Better now?"

Strength and confidence returning, Carver stands up and stretches his shoulders. "Much better. Let's find these wolves."

"As you say, Herald," Varric says and shoulders his crossbow. "Cassandra will be happy to see that you're feeling better. Maybe she'll even smile again."

Carver looks over his shoulder to Varric as he fastens his armor. "You want to make Cassandra smile?"

"I'm keeping a tally. You made her smile twice today, that gets you a special mention."

"In the book you're writing?"

"Where else?" Varric grins at him. "Someone has to write down the glorious adventures of Carver Hawke, Herald of Andraste. It will be grand and romantic."

"Romantic?"

"People want romance. If you didn't have your Daisy, Cassandra would be perfect for you but don't let her hear that."

Carver laughs out. "Never."

"Maybe our mighty Seeker could be interested in a charming dwarf..." Varric looks over to Cassandra on the other side of the camp, a soft smile on his face.

"Weren't you sweet on Bethany?" Carver asks as he comes back to Varric's side.

Varric looks up to him with a frown. "Your sister is like my sister. I love her and worry about her."

"Yeah, me too," Carver says softly. "I wonder where they are now, Merrill, Marian and Bethany."

"I got no new ravens," Varric says. "I just hope it isn't as cold where they are, Daisy has never quite gotten used to wearing shoes."

Carver shakes his head with a smile. "No, she hasn't. I brought her winter boots but she never liked wearing them, even when we had snow up to our knees."

They keep on reminiscing about Kirkwall as they climb up a mountain path with Solas and Cassandra. Varric tells him of jobs he did with Hawke that Carver has never heard about. Cassandra listens to the stories as well, occasionally asking for some detail.

Varric and Carver fall back a bit as they look for wolf tracks and Varric pulls Carver down by his shoulder to whisper, "Cassandra still asks me about my book."

"The one about the champion?"

"Yes, I think it's the reason why she tried to find Hawke for the Inquisition in the first place."

"Half of it is not even true."

"You read my book?" Varric calls out. "I'm touched."

"It was either that or some interpretation of the Chant of Light."

"Still, I'm glad my book won out."

Solas is the one who finds wolf tracks and leads them over the hillside to a small waterfall. After a short climb over slippery rocks, they come upon a clearing in front of a cave, where four wolves attack them right away. The wolves are relentless and it takes them a surprising long time to kill them.

"These wolves behave strangely," Solas says.

As they enter the cave, another pack of wolves attacks them, along with a demon that looks like a giant insect.

"That is a terror demon," Cassandra calls out.

"It explains why the wolves were going crazy," Varric shouts as he shoots the demon as fast as he can.

When the demon is finally down and the wolves as well, they are all exhausted. Cassandra leans against the stone with ancient carvings, drinking a potion. Solas kneels down next to a wolf, mumbling words in a foreign language as he gathers his strength. Carver feels fine but he knows that it's partially the fresh templar lyrium that lets him ignore his exhaustion.

As they follow the water back towards the farms, the hairs on Carver's neck stand up. "Hold! There's a rift."

"We only have one archer," Cassandra says, "and no second protector."

"We'll be fine," Carver says, confidence singing in his veins. He waits for Varric and Solas to find a higher position and then stomps through the shallow water towards the green glimmering rift. The rift hums at him, the mark on his Herald-hand sizzling, and he readies his sword.

The demons take notice of them, the giant terrors quickly trapping them as fiery demons slither towards them. Carver and Cassandra hack away at their gnarly limps but these demons are tough and and they have long range attacks. Lighting shoots from hunched over figures, blue and freezing and it slows them down. Despite their best efforts, Carver doesn't get any closer to the rift. He feels his strength drain from him and Cassandra cries out when one terror gets past her sword and hits her arm with a claw.

"We have to fall back!" Cassandra yells.

"We'll be fine," Carver repeats and plunges his sword into a demon that has slithered dangerously close.

"I could use some help here," Varric yells from the back. Another terror has appeared and closes in on Varric, whose bolts do little to slow the monster down.

Solas turns to aim his ice attacks at the terror approaching Varric, his face contorted in concentration. "I cannot hold out much longer."

"Herald!" Cassandra calls out. She's bleeding from a gash across her shoulder, dripping down the plate of her armor.

"We'll be — "

"No, Herald," Cassandra says, her eyes pleading with him. "That's the lyrium speaking."

The realization hits Carver like a brick. His confidence is grounded in the drug, not reality. That's what the templar vials do, they make one feel strong and invincible. He has seen templars fall before, blinded by their own overconfidence.

"Fall back! Run!" He turns and hacks a path for Cassandra and him.

As fast as they can, fighting off the terrors, they run towards Varric and Solas, protected by their long range attacks. Carver turns around as the noise gets quieter. The hum has shifted in tone and his mark has calmed to a soft green light. The demons stop following them, sticking close to the green fog of the rift.

"I think we're safe," Carver says and sits down on a boulder. Even with the strength of the lyrium singing in his body, he feels exhausted. Cassandra and Solas look even worse, sweat pearling on their foreheads. Varric unceremoniously falls down and heaves in air as he lies flat on his back.

"That was bad, I'm sorry, I thought..." Carver hides his face in his hands.

Cassandra comes over to him after long moments of silence and hands him a health potion. He takes it with a grateful nod, only now noticing the aches and pains all over his body.

The Seeker drinks her own potion and then sits down next to him. "I'm afraid we have a lot to discuss, Herald."

"Oh, I agree." Carver wipes the demon blood from his blade and sheathes it. "We need to get back to Haven."

*~~~(())~~~*


	11. Chapter 11

A raven swoops down, lands on Cassandra's shoulder and waits there with a croak until Cassandra has untied the small scroll on its leg. It flies away as she unfolds the note and reads it. She nods as she reads along, her brows furrowed.

"Anything important?" Carver asks. It's the first time that they're speaking. Other than short commands at the last fight with an assorted group of rogue templars, mages and bandits, and the conversation with Master Dennet and his delivery of horses — Carver and Cassandra have not exchanged a single word.

"A message from Commander Cullen," Cassandra says curtly.

"Can I see it?" He knows it will aggravate her but he just can't help himself.

Cassandra looks over to him and her frown carves deeper into her forehead.

Carver holds her gaze. "Is it personal?"

"No, it's just about the state of Haven, trouble with the troops..."

"So, shouldn't I know about this too?"

Cassandra hesitates until she hands him the small paper. "I don't want burden you with the minutiae of day to day operation of the inquisition."

Cullen's neat handwriting swims before his eyes. "Are you sure that's it? Or is it rather that you run the inquisition and not me?"

"I'm not! Leliana and I — "

"- run the inquisition, yes. I know that, everybody does. I'm just here to throw my hand at rifts." The little piece of paper crumbles into a ball in his hand.

"That is not true. You are the Herald of Andraste, this whole inquisition is in your name."

"Is it?" Carver yells, loud enough for every head to turn. Solas raises an eyebrow and slowly walks away.

"I'm... I'm not sure what brought this on." Cassandra looks at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I have been called a traitor for supporting you, a madwoman, but I keep fighting for this inquisition because of my faith in you."

Now Carver feels like a child back in school in Lothering, when the teacher looked disappointed at him for not knowing some fact about how the brave Fereldans shook off the Orlesian occupation.

"Junior?" Varric appears at his side. "What's eating you?"

Carver deflates like someone has let the air out of him. His mind is in turmoil, and he doesn't understand it himself. "I just... who leads this mess? Who has the plan? Am I supposed to have the plan? Cause I don't. I don't know what I'm doing, as we saw at that last rift."

"That was a mess, we all agree with that," Varric says and pulls him into the shadow of a pine tree. He dips his head to Cassandra and she joins them in the relative privacy of the trees, setting her giant hatchet on the ground to lean on the pommel.

"That fight showed us our limits," Varric says, "and we're gonna learn from that and come up with strategies."

"Solas said my Herald-hand will become stronger, probably." Carver flexes his hand, looking at the green glowing cut in his palm. He shivers, it's even colder here in the shade.

"Then let's just put a mark on the map that says 'deal with this later' and come back when you feel strong enough for it." Varric looks from him to Cassandra, who nods quietly.

"The templar dose, it made me overestimate myself." He can still feel it, the song humming in his veins, eager for a fight. "How can I make decisions like that?"

"Ah, I think there we have the core of the problem," Varric says with a nod. "What do you think, Seeker?"

Cassandra looks from Carver to Varric and sighs. "I must admit that these implications have not occured to me."

"Do Seekers take lyrium for their abilities?"

"No, our abilities are based on years of rigorous training and a year long vigil."

"Sounds exciting," Varric says.

"Seekers can do terrifying things. The older templars have legends about them to scare the new recruits with." Carver remembers how the mere mention of a Seeker coming to a Circle was enough to throw the barracks in panic.

"Now I want to know what your abilities are, Lady Seeker," Varric says to her and one can practically see how he takes mental notes about this conversation.

"I can set the lyrium within a person's blood aflame," Cassandra says, looking at Carver.

"Maker's arse," Carver says quietly.

Varric leans over to him and mumbles, "Better not get her angry, Junior."

"I swear that have no intention of using my gifts on the Herald of Andraste," Cassandra calls out.

Carver snorts. "I'd be grateful."

"In my eyes," Cassandra continues more quietly, "you are the leader of the Inquisition and even if I may not agree with all your ideas, I intend to support you. The Maker send you to us to help, when we needed you the most and I will not ignore that. I'll discuss this with Leliana and Josephine, how we can make your leadership more official."

'That shouldn't be necessary', is the first thought that yells through Carver's mind. He shouldn't need some fancy title and ceremony to be a leader, he should just _be_ one. How had Marian done this? How had she managed to get people to follow her?

It had looked so easy, big sister gathering her friends and fucking shit up, but now, looking back, he realizes that _that_ — had not been it. Marian had been the same age that he is now, when she took care of the family and then the whole city and people had been listening to her. They had turned to her to fix their problems and she had done it, again and again.

Nothing is easy right now. And Carver feels so fucking young.

Marian, with her disrespectful self, big sword and hidden, weak magic, had somehow managed to lead and inspire people. And looking back, he has no idea how she had done it.

"I'm no leader," he says.

"You are," Varric says, "more than you think."

Carver shakes his head. His eyes are itching as he rubs at them. He will let them all down.

"When we have returned to Haven," Cassandra says with an unusually soft voice, "we will have to rethink what this Inquisition will be. I know you have many ideas for that and I will listen. We will also need to address your dependence on the lyrium doses."

"It..." Carver stops, the green light erupts in angry hisses from his hand and he clenches his fists until it has calmed down. "I don't know if it's because of the hand or if I just never paid so much attention to it but the lyrium — it makes it hard to think. It's like it's pushing me, forward, just forward, without question."

"This is troubling," Cassandra says. "During our training, we have discussed the lyrium doses the templars receive. We know it can be addictive. A Seeker can demand lyrium doses to be reduced as a harsh punishment."

"Knight-Commander Meredith rather saw that as regular thing." Carver can easily list ten names off the top of his head of templars, who had their lyrium cut for something.

"That is not— " Cassandra shakes her head. "That should not have happened. Our order failed the Kirkwall Circle. We received reports of Knight-Commander Meredith's harsh treatment of her charges for years but the reports of magical corruption were equally worrying. It was decided her actions were justified. If we'd looked harder at the root causes, maybe this whole rebellion could have been prevented."

Carver is about to interject with one of Marian's colorful tirades about the mage rebellion being inevitable but Cassandra lets the subject drop.

"I promise," she says, looking at him, "Leliana and I will do everything in our power to find a way of cutting that lyrium dependence. I'm convinced the Maker has sent you to us to help and I cannot believe that he would want you to be chained to the song."

Varric looks up to her in surprise. "That's a very dwarven way of speaking about lyrium."

"We had extensive studies about lyrium."

Varric opens his mouth and closes it again, obviously storing any further questions away for later. He turns back to Carver. "Junior, we'll get to the bottom of this, you're not alone in this."

"Thanks Varric."

Carver ties the shirt tighter around his neck and steps into the last rays of the weak sun. He takes the lead, nodding at the inquisition soldiers and Solas as he passes them and follows the path that would take them back to Haven in a few days. On foot, because Master Dennet wouldn't part with his horses right away.

*~~~(())~~~*

Two days later, Carver has many choice words he wants to direct at Master Dennet. His feet hurt worse than ever and the weight of the shield has somehow aggravated a muscle in his left shoulder. He turns to Varric to complain about the lack of horses again, when they come over a ridge and movement catches his eye.

"What is that?" he says to Varric, keeping his voice low. Keeping in the shadow of the gnarly trees, he waves Cassandra over to show her the group of armored and armed people he has spotted. They are clearly templars, or rather ex-templars, which in itself is not unusual. But among them walks a bulky, oddly shaped creature.

"Is that a person? Made of crystals?"

Varric takes out a small spyglass from Maker knows where and peers through it. "It looks like it has been a person at some point and then it got overtaken by red lyrium and turned into, well, a monster." He sets the spyglass down and shakes his head. "Which is a weak description, I must admit, for someone who sees nightmarish creatures and demons pretty much everyday."

"I don't think we can hope for them to surrender to us without a fight," Cassandra says.

"I don't think surrender is in their vocabulary," Varric says and settles Bianca against his shoulder, his finger on her trigger.

Carver tightens the strap of the shield around his arm and unsheathes his sword. The lyrium hums in his veins, filling him with the urge to fight, and his Herald-hand crackles with green light. Maybe, just maybe getting into a fight is what he needs right now. Maybe then his head will be clear again.

The rogue templars attack as soon as they are in sight. Their faces are hidden behind helmets but the red light of corrupted lyrium swirls around their heads. They are even numbered against them but very quickly, the fight turns dangerous. These are not scrambling templar recruits, this is a well trained group of soldiers who fight without regard for their health.

At the center, the monstrous templar seems to bide his time. Red crystals grow out of his arms and occasionally he makes an unnatural sound that reverberates in Carver's ears. The song of the lyrium changes near him and Carver is drawn to him, yearning to attack him and cut the red lyrium from his body. With a deadly blow of his shield, the templar before him falls down with a snapped neck and the path is clear to attack the monster.

The bulky mass of the figure is slow but his hits are of a deadly force. Carver gets a few hits in but the injuries don't seem to disturb the creature. Varric's bolts keep hitting him, sticking out of his neck and shoulders but still he comes at Carver with the power of a battering ram. His shield cracks under the force of the red glowing sword. Carver steps back, avoiding another hit that would crumble his shield, feints to the side and buries his sword into the templar's sword arm.

Another bolt hits the templar as he pulls his sword back out but the monster doesn't even slow down. Like a mechanical automaton, the templar raises his sword, Carver barely gets his sword up to parry and the force of the hit rings through his whole body. His visions swims, the red lyrium shrieks in his head but with a twist of his arm, he gets his sword back up and drives it into the side of the templar's ribcage, where his armor is weaker.

The monstrous creature makes a gurgling sound, slowly dropping to its knees. But before Carver can react, the creature cries out once more, stretches up, and drives his red glowing sword into Carver's stomach.

"Carver!" someone cries out.

He turns, the glowing sword drops down from its own weight and he doesn't even feel hurt. There's just this annoying song, shrieking in his mind, his vision narrowing to a red glowing tunnel and there is Varric and Cassandra and some other faces and then the pain comes and someone screams and it keeps getting darker.

The song is shrieking.

Merrill won't like that song.

*~~~(())~~~*

* * *

 _At this point, the story Under a Blood Red Sky (only on archiveofourown) comes in, told from Cullen's point of view and bringing in the lovely OC Dasan._


	12. Chapter 12

_This is very self indulgent. I don't know if anybody else wants to hear about templar life for Carver and Cullen but that's what you're getting in the first bit._ _Second half features some game dialogue that I either took verbatim or changed for the dramatics. Gotta have dramatics, right?_

* * *

 _The creature has a distorted face, a grin spreading over it like a vertical split, the smell of rot and damp wafting behind it like a cape of smoke. Carver hears the screams of soldiers, falling under the assault of darkspawn. More and more keep coming. The darkspawn horde floods out of the Kokari Wilds and they fight and fight and they die and die and nobody comes, the troops aren't coming, there is no help, there is no hope, the king has fallen, run Carver, you have to run —_

 _The house is small. Always too small, not enough light in the kitchen but it is a home. And now they leave. Carver can't stop looking. Marian takes his arm and drags him on. Marian tells him to watch over Bethany. Marian tells him to watch over mother. Mother cries in his arm._

 _Mother cries. Marian is gone. Bethany is gone. The towering statues of the Gallows laugh at him when he steps through the gates, trying to save what little he has left of his family by swearing loyalty to the enemy._

 _A mage turns to him, the mark of the sun burning on her forehead, dead eyes looking at him. "Do you need assistance?" the tranquil asks. He wants to answer but his throat tightens. He looks at the tranquil again but it's Merrill and the sun burns on her forehead, blinding him and her eyes are dead and her voice is not her voice, her voice is many voices and they are all dead and without love and the smell of rot and damp wafts around her like a cape of smoke and she says, "Do you need me to die?"_

"No!" he screams. Somebody holds him, strong, too strong and the voices scream and say his name, again and again.

"Carver, Carver it's alright, it was a nightmare, Carver!"

The nightmare dissolves. He is inside, in a building and Cullen is holding his arms to stop him from hitting him.

"Merrill." He lets his arms drop and Cullen lays him back down on a pillow.

"Who?"

"Nevermind." Carver stretches out on the cot and looks around. "Is this Haven? Why am I in the chantry?"

"You were hurt, you almost died." The candles flicker and make the dark shadows under Cullen's eyes even more pronounced. "A red templar got you with a sword of red lyrium and a piece of it got stuck in your... well, there," he says and points to Carver's stomach.

Carver lifts his shirt to examine the area of dull pain. His stomach looks like someone had cut him open and tried to stuff him with fruits like a pig for Landsmeet Feast. "That templar with the lyrium crystals growing out of him?"

"So Varric told us."

Carver looks around again. His cot is placed right at the altar, the small statue of Andraste looking down on him. In the flickering candle light, her face seems to move. "Why am I here? Don't we have a healer's tent?"

"The Herald of Andraste ill and fighting for his life," Varric says as he strolls over. "What do you think happened?"

"People wanted to pray for you at Andraste's statue and also at your side," Cullen says, rubbing his neck with a sigh. "All in all it was just easier to put you here so that people could do both at the same time."

Carver laughs and winces immediately. His lower body does not like it when he laughs. "How very practical."

There is a small table next to Cullen's chair, papers and books stacked in a precarious pile on top of it. "How long have you been here? How long was I out?"

"Four days." Cullen looks at the table. "Most of those are Josephine's."

"I better let her know that you're awake," Varric says and hurries to Josephine's office.

Carver tries to find a more comfortable position but as awareness comes back, the pain becomes more fierce as well. It burns from his stomach all the way up to his neck, where it joins a headache that has him clenching his jaw. "I don't even remember how I got into Haven."

"Dasan carried you on his Halla."

"Dasan?"

There is a faint blush spreading on Cullen's cheeks. "An elf, who happened upon us and offered his help. He also..." Cullen takes a deep breath before the next sentences tumble out of his mouth in a rush. "He saved your life. You were dying when you got here, no potion worked, he said he could help you. He's a mage, he saved you with bloodmagic, got the splinter of red lyrium out — I let him, I let him do bloodmagic on you to save your life. I'm sorry."

Carver has to hide a grin about the earnest worry of his friend. He doesn't know how much time Carver has spend with a bloodmage in Kirkwall and what kind of things she had shown him. "It's alright, better than being dead I'd say."

"There was no time for other options, you were dying."

"It's alright, Cullen, don't worry."

Before Cullen can lay on another layer of guilt, golden, blue, and red ruffles fly into his vision as Josephine comes running and hugs his head.

"Carver, thank the Maker, I was so worried!" She presses a kiss to his forehead and blushes deeply at her own outburst.

"Eh, alright? I'm sorry to have worried you," he stutters, a bit overwhelmed by the sudden display of affection.

A new voice chuckles. "I'm glad to see the Herald has woken up."

Carver looks past Josephine's ruffles upon the most beautiful man he has ever seen. He is a tall elf with long black hair, brown skin and the markings on his face seem to glitter golden in the candle light. The elf approaches his cot and kneels down to examine the wound on his stomach.

Cullen, who stares at the man with a faint smile that he probably isn't aware of, clears his throat. "Ahem, this is Dasan."

"My saviour, I heard," Carver says. "Thank you for doing everything you could to save my life." He holds out his hand and Dasan lays his elegant hand in his and nods. They both know what Carver says.

Josephine has gotten up and looks at Dasan with the same kind of smitten smile that Cullen wears on his face. When Carver grins at her, she hides a blush by turning away and picking up her papers from the small table. "I better get these into my office. When you feel well enough to get up," she says to Carver, "I would very much appreciate if we could go over a few letters and resulting developments." She smiles once more at Dasan and even Carver gets a bit of that smile directed at him. "I have new tea you might like."

"I will definitely come to your office for the tea alone," Carver says. He tries to sit up but gives up when another bolt of pain shoots through his body.

"Please rest, Herald," she says and hurries to her office with a smile.

Dasan holds his hand over Carver's stomach, a soft yellow glow emanating from his hand. Carver can feel the healing magic in the wound, gently encouraging fibres to knit themselves together. The pain changes to a dull throb, annoying but manageable.

"This looks very good." Dasan looks at Carver. "In a few days you will be healed and can travel again. But you should still rest to gather your strength."

With a nod towards him and a lingering look on Cullen, the elf excuses himself and walks out of the chantry. Cullen keeps watching after him until the doors fall close again. He probably doesn't realize what a dreamy smile he wears.

Carver grins to himself but spares his friend the easy mockery. "Has anything happened that I should know? Any new plans? Where's Cassandra?" He flexes his Herald hand. The green light glows softly in his palm and apart from the usual prickling sensation, it doesn't hurt much.

Cullen clears his throat and schools his features into a serious expression. "Cassandra prepares everyone for the arrival of the horses and the mages."

"The mages bring the horses? I don't think they know how to ride."

Cullen shrugs. "Maybe they can magic themselves into good riders."

"That's not how it works," Carvers says, scowling at him.

"Sorry, I'm a bit... worried." Cullen rubs his neck and stretches out his legs as best as he cna on the chair. "We don't have enough soldiers to escort a group of mages and a herd of horses separately, that's why they come together. When they arrive, we'll have a sudden influx of mages here in Haven, more than anyone here probably has ever seen before. Cassandra is doing what she can, educating people, but I'm worried. We're adding a lot of potential conflict to an already unstable situation."

"Cassandra is educating people?"

"Yes, she's holding classes daily. Mother Giselle and Leliana are helping her."

Carver stares at Cullen. "I never expected Cassandra, of all people, to support the mages in the Inquisition like that."

Cullen grins at him. "Do you know what the Right Hand of the Divine does?"

"Honestly? No idea."

"The Right Hand makes the Divine's vision reality. She doesn't need to agree with it but she will do everything necessary to make it happen." He smiles warmly at Carver. "She's now your Right Hand. Even if she doesn't agree with your ideas, she will make them reality to the best of her abilities."

"I'm beginning to like this."

"Don't get too optimistic," Cullen says with a frown. "People are not happy that more mages will settle here."

"We can't keep fighting among us. This needs to stop."

"I don't really know how," Cullen says. "You're asking for a lot and you're asking simple people to forget what they've believed their whole lives."

Carver sighs. "What the chantry taught them."

"Just two days ago, I had to intervene between mages and templars right in front of the chantry. Each accusing the other of either having killed the Divine or letting it happen. I'm sure Roderick still has his people here, spreading rumours. The people are scared and they easily believe things."

Carver lies back and pinches the bridge of his nose against a persistent headache. "Maybe this is all just a stupid idea. I should just keep pointing my hand at rifts and let the rest sort itself out on their own."

"No." Cullen looks at him with a frown. "You are changing things. I may not agree with everything you do but we need change." He stares at his hands, his fingernails dig into his palms. "I know I never was a good friend, I wasn't even good company. I was... orders, I liked orders. Did what I was told. I don't want to be that person anymore. Kirkwall has shown us where strict chantry law leads us."

"Took you long enough to realize that." He had been so angry and frustrated with Cullen back in Kirkwall. Everyday when he left the barracks, he feared that another mage had been turned tranquil and that one day, it would be Bethany, or someone else he knows. "How long would you have kept tolerating it all, if Meredith hadn't started her hot affair with the red lyrium idol?"

"I couldn't say. I was easy just to keep going. Being a templar was all I ever wanted to be. I wanted to protect people."

"But how..." Carver doesn't even know how to put into words how he watched Cullen turn away from the many horrors that happened every day in the Gallows. How the bile rose in his throat at his inability to change anything. "You must have known, you must have seen how other templars acted, Alrik and the likes, how could you close your eyes to that?"

Cullen stares at his hands as he is wringing and clenching them. "Kinloch Hold showed me the worst of what magic can do, it was... I still have those nightmares..., trapped by magic, demons taunting me. They looked like my friends, like a mage I was friends with and then they turned... I couldn't trust my mind, I didn't even believe the Warden was real. And then..." he stares out towards the door that Dasan has just passed through, "I wanted them all killed, all of them, all the mages. In my mind they were all bloodmages and I would never be safe with them alive."

"What happened then?" The Fifth Blight had not been kind to anybody and many spent months afterwards barely functioning.

"The Warden needed the mages to stop the Blight and Knight-Commander Greagoir and Grand-Enchanter Irving were sure that none of the mages would have chosen to become abominations if Uldred had not forced them. I — " he sighs, his fingernails digging into his palms. "I didn't believe them. But I thought if I kept watch over the mages in the tower, I could keep everyone safe."

"Wait, they assigned you to the tower after all that?"

"I just wanted to protect people. I was... I was horrible to the mages, suspicious, unforgiving. I think it even disturbed Greagoir and he eventually send me to Kirkwall. Maybe he thought I would get better there."

Carver groans. "He sent you from one nightmare right to the next one."

Cullen nods with a resigned sigh. "It must be different for you, you must have good memories related to magic."

"Annoying ones, for the most part," Carver says. "As a kid I was jealous how much time father spend with Bethany and then Bethany would just hang out with Marian all the time. Back then I didn't even know that she was teaching Hawke, I thought they were just not letting me in on their girl stuff." He grins as he thinks back to those days in Lothering. "But yes, compared to your memories, mine are probably better."

"Surprising that you became a templar."

"Bethany had been brought to the Circle and I wanted to watch over her. And it's not like I had many other options for a job," Carver says. "Still, Hawke was furious when she found out."

Cullen shudders, probably remembering then many disputes he had had with Hawke. "You were a good templar though, never had any trouble with the mages."

"The mages didn't have many opportunities to make trouble in the Gallows."

Cullen is silent after that, looking at the statue of Andraste. After a while he turns back to Carver. "Do you remember your first Harrowing?"

Carver lies back with a sigh. "Maker yes, what a nightmare that was. We had three that day. The first one chose tranquility, the second passed, but the third..."

"Demon?"

"Yes. And Karras made _me_ kill her. Said it's part of becoming a templar, a badge of honor."

Cullen nods. "I'm sorry. It's terrible to do that." He slowly unclenches his hands. "I was surprised that you asked to replace Karras as Last-and-First-Hand after that. Didn't seem like a thing you'd enjoy. But your harrowings always went really well, you were good at that."

Carver grins at Cullen. "Because I told them."

"Told them what?"

"I told them what to expect. As Last-and-First-Hand I took the last prayer with them and then I told them what the Harrowing is."

"But that's..."

"Against chantry law?" Carver gives Cullen a challenging look. "Yes, and that law is fucking stupid. You give a mage a huge dose of lyrium and without even knowing what's happening, all their powers get amplified. Do you remember how that first lyrium felt? How it seemed to unlock this power inside of us?" He watches Cullen until he nods. "Now imagine that as a mage, who already has powers to start with, gets all that amplified and then thrown into some Fade fight. Some of them were barely grown, they never fought a day in their lives! They didn't know what to do. So I told them. I told them of the demons, of resisting, of negotiating with Spirits— "

"Negotiating with Spirits?" Cullen stares at him in horror.

Carver chuckles. "Yes, you can negotiate with them. Spirits love to chat, they're very curious. My sisters talked to them often. Some even tried to talk to me but Bethany had to relay, I couldn't hear them."

Understanding dawns on Cullen's face. "That's why they were all so calm, I thought it was just..."

"My winning personality?" Carver chuckles again. "Hardly. It was still terrifying, even with that knowledge, some of them still chose tranquility but at least I never had to kill another mage in their harrowing."

Cullen shakes his head. "I realize now that you've always been a rebel. Your grand plans for the Inquisition make a lot of sense now."

The headache gnaws at Carver's forehead again. "I wish it was just as easy as that last prayer. Just telling the truth was enough and that was so simple. Now, with this mess? Hundreds of years of the chantry telling everyone how mages are dangerous? I don't know how to get rid of that."

Leliana steps out of the shadows and Carver wonders how long she has been standing there, listening. "You need to embrace being the Herald of Andraste. People need to believe it."

"I can't say that, I'm not..." Carver tries to sit up and gives up once again. "It's not like Andraste has spoken to me. We all heard that it was the Divine who called out to me and I hardly remember even that."

Leliana comes closer and her face, halfway hidden by the scarf over her head, is lit up softly by the candle light. She casts her eyes down and bows her head to the small figurine of Andraste. "If the Maker couldn't even protect his most devoted servant, his most holy representative to us, what good is he? Has he abandoned us? Is our lady still watching over us, pleading for our well being to the Maker? Or has she too, turned from us? You speak for the prophet, what does she say?"

Carver's neck turns hot and he avoids Leliana's accusing gaze. "I don't know. She's not talking to me directly. I'm sorry you feel this way, I wish I could help but..."

"But you can help," Leliana says. "You are the Herald of Andraste, you can give people hope."

"But I don't know anything." Carver cards his fingers through his hair. It has gotten long, soon he will either have to cut it or tie it in a tail. "I don't know what Andraste thinks. You want me to lie."

"Is it a lie?" Leliana's eyes are like daggers from the shadow of her scarf. "How can you be sure that you're not part of the Maker's plan? Can you be certain that the Lady herself did not place you here on her command?"

"I... Well, I guess not. I don't remember anything, who knows what captivating conversations I had with the Lady."

"Do not jest," Leliana says with a harumph that could have made Cassandra proud.

Cullen puts his hand on Carver's shoulder and looks at him. "If you can give people hope, boost the morale of our soldiers, the Inquisition will be much more successful. And if your radical ideas for change come from a Herald that people believe in, how much more willing will they be to listen to you?"

"Shit." Carver turns his head to look at the statue of Andraste. "I feel like an imposter."

"You're humble," Leliana says. "That's a good trait to have. We cannot assume to know the Maker's will. We can only try to act in the best interest of his people. Andraste spoke for us, pleaded for us and I'm sure this war and the Breach are not what she wanted for us."

Carver nods. "I get that. But I can't just go around, yelling at people 'I'm the Herald, follow me!'. It's dishonest."

"I believe you have been sent by Andraste," Leliana says and it's the first time that Carver has heard her say that. "I believe that your survival and your hand are part of the Maker's plan to give us options. He will not save us if we are unworthy of Andraste's love and mercy. We must prove that we can end this war, that we are worthy of fixing the Breach."

"Maker's grace," Carver says quietly.

"Yes, Maker's Grace," Leliana says with a stern look. "The Maker is testing us and Andraste sent you to help us."

"I don't know if I can bring that over convincingly." Carver looks to Cullen, trying to read his face. But his former Commander looks at his hands, hiding his expression. Carver casts another glance at the statue of Andraste. The way the candle light plays on her face, she seems to smirk at him. "Void take you all," he mumbles to himself. "Fine, I'll try," he says loudly. "I don't really like it but I'll try to be more Herald like, to give people hope."

To his surprise, Cullen looks at him with genuine relief, a joyful smile on his face. It occurs to him that Cullen himself may be in need of guidance, of someone to believe in.

Carver lets his head fall back on the pillow. "I just hope this isn't going to be a terrible mistake."

Varric's voice comes from somewhere in the darkness of the chantry hall, "The sky is broken and demons are having parties outside our doors. I'd say it can hardly get any worse."

"Thanks, Varric, now I feel much better."

*~~~(())~~~*

The golden gates of Val Royeaux glitter in the sun. The road to the gates looks cleaner and smoother than any road Carver has ever seen in Kirkwall and even the poor housings here, outside of the city walls, look as clean as Hightown.

Carver grunts when he jumps off his horse; he hates riding on a good day and today is not one of those. He still feels the effects of his injury, every movement pulling at the scar on his stomach. After riding for ten days, crossing the Waking Sea in a storm that had Carver puke his guts out, and then another ride of two days up to the capital, he feels like a darkspawn has eaten and spit him out again.

"I assume they're expecting us?" He stretches his legs and flexes his Herald hand. He had tried to pull a glove over it, or at least a gauntlet but it felt like it wanted to melt into his skin. And maybe, if he is to be convincing in his new role as a religious figure, the stupid hand should be visible.

"I am certain, yes," Cassandra says. "This is the heart of Orlais, our capital. Even if the templars have left, this is still the seat of the chantry. The city still mourns the Divine."

"If templars have left, who defends the city then?"

"They still have guards. But you're right, the city may be more vulnerable now. That's probably why the gates are closed, I've never seen them closed before. I assume they have informants all the way from the port up to here. They know we're coming. I hope our own contact finds us though."

"Why didn't Leliana come with us? This is her home, isn't it? She should know many people here."

"Leliana has lived in Val Royeaux, yes, but not permanently. She originally joined the chantry in Lothering and traveled a lot."

Carver freezes in his steps, the light reflecting from the golden gates blinding him. "Lothering? The chantry in Lothering?"

"Yes, she mentioned that she met you and your sister when you were children," Cassandra says, without noticing that Carver stares at her back in shock. Somewhere behind him, Varric is snickering and Carver turns to shoot him a glare.

"I know her, I remember now." As a young boy, he's had such a crush on the lively redhead with the pretty braids and her wonderful singing voice. But today, he has a hard time seeing that oft smiling girl in the hardened spymaster, who hides her face under a scarf. "She told us stories in the chapel." No wonder Leliana has always acted so strangely around him. She thought he would remember her.

"Any awkward stories you can tell?" Varric asks.

"Eh, no. She is a great singer though." Carver wipes a few strands of hair away from his face. He'd rather not indulge in any embarrassing reminiscence with Varric, as entertaining as the dwarf might find it.

"Maybe not the time," Varric says with a thoughtful sigh. "Did you notice how people look at us? Over there, two women almost fell over each other to get away from us."

Solas, who has been mostly silent for the whole journey, steps closer to speak quietly to them. "The Inquisition seems to have gained a reputation outside of Ferelden. One wonders how we have been painted here."

"And by whom?" Varric says with a grim expression. "Depending on who tells a tale, stories can be very powerful."

Carver looks at the glittering gates, still closed as they approach. "Will they even open the gates?"

Solas lowers his head and gives Carver a distinctive look. "And if they open them for us — "

"They can also close them behind us and trap us in," Carver finishes his sentence.

As if someone has heard them, the gates open to an empty pathway of decorative mosaics. The sides are lined with high walls and alcoves, each with a statue in it and green vines falling lush over the top. At the end of the path, an arch perfectly frames the top of the chantry with its golden spire. Carver can imagine how promising this path must look to worshippers. The heart of the country, Cassandra has said, and the city truly presents itself as that.

Someone runs towards them and Carver and Cassandra both move their hands to the pommel of their swords, but the person comes to a skidding halt in front of them and falls to their knees. "My Lord Herald, Lady Seeker."

Cassandra looks critically at the woman and then relaxes. "You're one of Leliana's scouts. What information do you have for us?"

"The chantry mothers await you but... so do a great many templars."

Carver peers through the archway to catch a glimpse of the courtyard behind it. "But I thought the templars left?"

"They returned three days ago, to protect the people of Val Royeaux." The scout stares at him, her eyes falling to his hand. The green light is still calm but Carver can feel it waking.

"Protect them from who?" he asks.

"From the Inquisition."

"What nonsense is this?" Cassandra calls out.

"Reputation is everything," Varric says quietly and takes his crossbow from his back, letting it casually point to the ground.

Cassandra glares at him and turns back to the scout. "Who leads these templars?"

"Lord Seeker Lucius, my lady. They await you on the other side of the market."

With a sigh deep in her throat, Cassandra dismisses the scout and sends her back to Haven to report that they might be facing complications.

"I know Lord Seeker Lucius," Cassandra says as they walk towards the archway. "I cannot imagine him coming to the aid of the chantry, after all that's occurred. And protecting the people against the Inquisition? He may have a thing for grand gestures but this seems hardly fitting."

Carver cards through his hair again, something is itching on his scalp. He turns his focus inside, for a moment tuning out the bustle of the market place they enter. There is a jitter in the lyrium song in his veins. Not enough to hear it but something feels just a tiny bit off.

"Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!" At the far side of the market, a small platform holds an assortment of chantry mothers and sisters and a templar. One older mother addresses the crowd with outstretched arms. The noise of the market dies down, except for the occasional whisper of 'is that the Herald of Andraste?' Carver hears as they move through the crowd towards the front.

"Together we still mourn the killing of our Most Holy, Divine Justinia. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery. You wonder what will become of her murderer. Wonder no more. Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste." She points straight at Carver. "Claiming to rise where our beloved fell."

With all eyes turned on him and Cassandra looking at him expectantly, Carver raises his voice. "The Breach threatens us all. I implore you: let us work together and deal with the real threat."

"It's true," Cassandra chimes in, "the Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it's too late."

The chantry mother pulls her face into a vicious sneer. "The Inquisition. Your heredic group of traitors to the chantry, bedazzled by that imposter of yours." She looks at Carver and holds out her arms again. "Tell me, are you really the Herald of Andraste? Do you dare soil her name with your presumptuousness?"

Carver opens his mouth but the claim to be the Herald is stuck in his throat. He cannot say it, it has never felt more like a lie. "I will not claim what I cannot prove. But I have been spared when all others died and my hand is the only one that can close the Breach. Whatever the Maker's plan was, there must be a reason why I'm here."

"Your lies will not impress us," the chantry mother cries out. She points to the side, where a large group of templars approach the platform. "The templars have returned to the Chantry. They will end your 'Inquisition' and the people will be safe once more."

The troop of templars steps on the platform but the leader walks past the mother as if he doesn't see her. The templar after him looks at the chantry mother and punches her in the face.

A gasp goes through the crowd as the mother falls. The templar, who had watched the mother before, tries to get to her but the leader holds him back. "Still yourself, she is beneath us," he says to the templar and Carver's blood runs cold.

"How dare you!" he yells to the leading Knight.

He looks down at Carver with disdain. "Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own."

He turns and marches on, ignoring Cassandra calling after him. "Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak — "

"You will not address me," Seeker Lucius says without looking at Cassandra.

"Charming fellow," Varric says quietly and steps up to Carver, his crossbow ready. "Anybody else feel like shit got real complicated just now?"

Carver's Herald hand flares up with angry green light and the lyrium in his body hums in a strange tone. He gives Varric a lopsided grin while he keeps an eye on the templars that outnumber them ten to one. "I definitely agree. But we're not dead yet, so we still got all the options."

Varric grins up to him. "There's the Hawke optimism I've been missing. Makes me feel right at home, Junior."

"I do what I can."

Varric looks up to him, suddenly serious. "I know, Carver. I know."

*~~~(())~~~*


	13. Chapter 13

_A shorter chapter today, it got too long and rambling, so I cut it in half._

*~~~(())~~~*

The glittering roofs of Val Royeaux disappear over the horizon as the horses carry them back to the port. Carver looks over to their new companion, Sera, sitting about as awkwardly on her horse as he did, back when he travelled with Cullen and Cassandra to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, half a lifetime ago.

She looks different than any other elf he's ever seen but between Merrill, the elves in the alienage, and Solas — his experiences may not be that universal. Cassandra doesn't like her, that much is obvious from how she looks at her but Carver thinks she's alright. He didn't understand half of what she talked about but she spoke of the little people getting caught in all the stomping and posturing and he kind of likes that. Someone needs to think of the common people in all this mess.

"Herald Carver, a word?" Cassandra says as she rides up to his side.

"Yes." Carver stretches his shoulders that seem to be permanently locked in tension. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it."

Cassandra looks at him in surprise. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I couldn't claim to be the Herald of Andraste. I just couldn't do it."

"I didn't expect you to."

"Sister Leliana advised me to do that, to claim the title and give people hope. I promised I'll try but..."

"I think you reacted well, it was a difficult and shocking situation. You were calm and, according to the people on the market and the grocer who joined us, you did indeed give people hope." She looks over to the cart full of vegetables with a mule in front, which the fashionable grocer steers with the elegance of a royal guard. "I was going to ask if you want me to contact the Seekers."

"You hope that not everyone has lost their nugs like Lord Seeker Lucius?"

Cassandra lets out a pained sigh. "The Seekers usually operated in solitary and we received our orders from the Chantry. But with the recent fissures through the chantry and the templar order, these things are not the same anymore."

"When was the last time you received orders?"

"More than a year ago."

"Does the Order of the Seekers even still exist?"

Cassandra is silent for a while. "Since Lord Seeker Lambert has declared the Nevarran Accords to be void, we have been independent of the Chantry. Our last order was a Rite of Annulment on the Circle at Dairsmuid in Rivain. It was a terrible bloodshed. After that..." Cassandra takes a harsh breath. "I have heard nothing from the Order or from other Seekers. They seem to have disappeared. Lord Seeker Lucius was the first Seeker I have seen in a long time."

"That doesn't bode well for your Order, does it?" The pained expression in Cassandra's face tells him that she agrees. "Maybe we can look for Seekers you know better, like friends, but seeing how that Lord Seeker acted back there, I wouldn't want to expose us to the whole Order right now."

"I think that is a wise decision." Cassandra gives him a strange look. "I can't say that I had many friends in the Order but I'll try to contact those I know personally." She rides silently for a while and then looks back to him. "What do you think about Grand Enchanter Fiona?"

The elven mage, who had looked strangely ageless, had stopped them as they were about to leave Val Royeaux and invited them to Redcliffe, where the rebel mages have their base. "About that she thinks that Seeker Lucius caused the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes? I wouldn't put it past him after that display of his and his templars. They punched a Mother, in the face!" He's no friend of the chantry but some things you just don't do.

"She's been advocating the separation from the Chantry for years," Cassandra says, "long before the rebellion in Kirkwall. I find it strange that she is now willingly offering an alliance with the Inquisition. Even if we have broken with the Chantry— "

"We still got that Chantry stink on us, yes."

"That's not what I— " she stops when she sees Carver grin. "Ah, yes, I see. Scout Harding mentioned that you're funny." She hides a smile as she pats her horse.

"I'm trying." He shrugs. "About the mages though, maybe it's less willingly and more desperately? Redcliffe isn't that secure of a place and even the permission from the king won't help them if the Templar Order decides to march on them." Something had felt off about Fiona. As close as he had been standing to her, he should have felt her magic, his templar senses should have reacted to her but they didn't. As if she wasn't really there.

Carver glances over to Solas, who hasn't said a word since that meeting and seems to be lost in thoughts. "What I found strange is how Solas knew who she is. Has he worked with the rebels before?"

"Possibly? According to Leliana, he's never been part of a Circle but he could have been in contact with the rebellion."

The nagging feeling he has whenever he looks at Solas, is just one of many that seem to share his headspace nowadays. He rubs his temples to chase an oncoming headache away.

Recently, his dreams are filled with symbols. The griffons of the Wardens, the Watchful Eye of the Seekers, the burning sun of the Templars, and even dalish looking symbols that he doesn't recognize. They all come up in his dreams, sometimes edged into an object, sometimes burning in the background as he stumbles through foreign worlds. It doesn't look like the Fade did with Merrill but these dreams are unlike anything he dreamt of before his hand started to glow green.

"Do you intend to follow Fiona's invitation?"

"We should at least hear what she has to offer." Carver looks at the green Breach rotating in the sky, visible even from here. "I don't see us closing that thing with templar swords. I'm pretty sure we need magic for that." He picks a small slip of paper from his sleeve and hands it to Cassandra. "What do you think of this invitation? Should we make a stop at Madame de Fer's salon?"

"We might not return to this part of Orlais for a while," Cassandra says, reading the elegant invitation again. "I'm afraid I don't know much about her, Josephine might have more information. I know she was the First Enchanter of Montsimmard before the rebellion and is well known and respected at the imperial court."

"She's a mage but not with the rebellion?"

"No, she and her followers call themselves Loyalists."

"Loyal to the Circles and the Chantry?"

Cassandra shrugs. "It seems so. They want to keep the Circles and stay under the control of the Chantry, as far as I understand. But then again, I'm not that familiar with this part of the Game."

"Oh yeah, the Game." Carver wrinkles his nose. "Josephine tried to explain to me what it means but I don't really get it."

"I'm afraid I can't be of any help with that." Cassandra looks at him with a rare, apologetic smile.

"I think I should at least meet her. It'll be interesting, I've never met a mage who liked the Circles."

*~~~(())~~~*

The evening turned out to be interesting indeed.

A marquis in a silver face mask stands literally frozen in ice in front of him, his hand still raised in the challenge he was making. His petty insults had not impressed Carver but getting challenged to a duel at a party like this, in a most elegant mansion and surrounded by rustling nobles in shiny masks — that definitely was something else.

Madame le Fer descends down the stairs like a queen, dressed in white with a silver mask that doesn't hide much of her dark skinned face. She scolds or rather verbally kills the poor marquis with well placed insults and sends him running.

In a quiet corner, away from the tittering nobles, she introduces herself as the First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court. "As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas," she says, "I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause. I'm well versed in the politics of the orlesian empire. I know every member of the court personally."

Carver weighs his words carefully. As impressive as this Vivienne is and as much as he would love to throw all the Game and Court business at her, her loyalty to the Chantry doesn't sit well with him. "I can see that you would be a great asset for the Inquisition. But we have separated from the Chantry and we are open to everyone, rebel mages, ex-templars and whoever else wants to lend a hand. We already have a large group of mages with us in Haven. Not many will agree with your position on the Circles and the Chantry."

Vivienne is silent for a while, her eyes studying him like a rare specimen. "I must admit I'm surprised to learn that mages are part of the Inquisition. You yourself are not a mage, you are a templar."

"I was, yes, but that doesn't mean that I agree with how the templars have acted under the Chantry's orders." He looks the Enchanter in the eyes, raising his chin. "The Inquisition will not further the separation between mages, templars and common people, not on my watch."

Vivienne holds his gaze and nods. "Interesting times we have. Great things are beginning, I can see that. I wouldn't want to miss to be part of it, my dear."

Carver smiles carefully and extends his hand, which Vivienne takes with a surprisingly firm grasp. "Welcome to the Inquisition," he says. "I will see you in Haven then?"

"Yes, you will, my dear, you will." Vivienne turns and leaves, greeting her guests with dazzling smiles and elegant laughter. Carver stands around, looking at the giant glass windows until a servant scuttles over to lead him out of the mansion.

Cassandra waits for him by the door with their horses, the rest of their group has already taken rest at an inn for the night.

"How was it?" Cassandra asks as they ride along the artificially winding path between manicured hedges towards the main gate.

"Fancy," Carver says. "No food though."

"I made sure the innkeeper put something aside for you."

"Maker bless you," Carver says to her.

Cassandra blushes a little and looks at him expectantly.

"Vivienne de Fer will join the Inquisition," Carver says. "She got all the politics of the Game down but was surprised that we let mages in. I'm not sure if her joining will be a good thing but it will definitely be interesting."

"Varric would say that this seems to be a theme with you, currently."

Carver looks at her in surprise. "Yes, that's indeed something he would say. So you _do_ listen to him when he talks."

Cassandra harumps quietly. "Please don't tell him, I'll never hear the end of it."

*~~~(())~~~*


	14. Chapter 14

Haven greets them with excited cheers, doors and tent flaps opening and people running towards them, making the horses nervous. The horsemaster takes them off them with a frown and they continue to the gate by foot, the group of people around them getting larger as they get closer to the chantry. Haven has grown since they've left, Carver sees many new faces, most of them humans, farmers most probably, judging by their hunched over posture from years of work.

But also a group of elves has found their way here. For a moment he thinks he sees Merrill. But it's just a dark haired elf with fear in her eyes. Carver wonders what horrors she had to see, to seek refuge in a human village. Instantly, he worries what horrors Merrill is living through right now and the fear is like a knife in his chest. He has to ignore it or he would lose his mind.

The inside of the chantry in Haven looks pitch dark to their eyes as they go through the door. Cassandra halts in her steps at the same time as Carver does and they both go slowly until their eyes have readjusted. Golden reflections approach them in the twilight in the form of Josephine, her golden tassels and jewelry glittering with the candles.

"It's good you are back," she says as she hurries towards them. "We heard of the incident in Val Royeaux, a shocking development."

"We didn't die, so that's good," Carver says, trying to stretch his ass without being too obvious about it. How he hates horse rides.

Leliana and Cullen come towards them as well, causing an impromptu advisor meeting in the middle of the chantry.

"The reports I received about Seeker Lucius," Leliana says, "have been very odd. He seems to take the Order somewhere but it doesn't really make sense."

Cullen shakes his head. "It's a shame that the templars have abandoned their senses and the capital."

"Do we have enough soldiers to send a troop to Val Royeaux?" Carver looks around, wondering if only he had this idea. "There is a power vacuum there that the Inquisition could fill. The people need to feel protected. And we might recruit some more followers."

"That's an excellent idea," Cassandra says and turns to Cullen. "Commander, do you think we could spare a few men?"

"Also mages," Carver interrupts before Cullen can say anything. "We need to mix it up, have mages and templars and common people in the same troop, working together."

Cullen snaps his mouth close like a fish and takes a few breaths. "That's going to be difficult."

"I know." Carver shrugs. "But we have to start somewhere. We won't end this war by killing everyone else. That's no solution." He looks around at the worried faces of his advisors. "We are the Inquisition, we will not separate people."

Cullen groans, kneading the back of his neck. "You don't even know how many times I had to intervene these last tendays. There's so much suspicion and anger..."

"I know." Carver holds out his Herald-hand. "You said I should embrace the title, so I'm doing that. Herald of Andraste says: cut your shit out and work together. That's my message."

A soft snicker comes from Josephine. "If you'd allow me to rephrase that a bit, I think we can work with that."

"Yes, please do." Carver catches a smile from Leliana before she hides her face in the shadow of her shawl again, while Cullen got noticibly paler and Cassandra wears a strange expression of shock and amusement.

Cullen shakes his head and pulls himself together. "I take it that we won't contact the Templar Order?"

"If there even still is one," Carver says. "Can we send out a call that we're willing to take in templars who want to leave the Order?"

"We have to be careful though, they might try to undermine us from the inside by infiltrating us," Cassandra says.

Carver turns to Cullen. "Get your most trusted men and women on this, put them in command. They have to watch every newcomer, mage, templar, commoner — anyone could try to sabotage this. Also, you know that I want them to work with mages."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Cullen rubs his neck again and sighs. He turns to Leliana. "Could we have two or three of your scouts to find the Order and have them get in contact with someone, discreetly?"

Leliana nods. "I have someone and I might even have a contact inside the Order."

"You've been approached by the rebel mages, I have heard," Josephine says, her quill hovering over her notepad. "Will you accept their invitation to Redcliff?"

"It could be a trap," Cassandra warns.

Carver wants to roll his eyes. "So it'll be dangerous. I've been in danger since I walked out of that rift." His clothes itch with the grime of the journey, the scar on his stomach burns, and every single bone in his body seems to want to complain about some ailment. The only thing not itching is his Herald-hand, as if not even dirt dares to touch the green glow.

He turns to Leliana, "If you could get information about the mages in Redcliffe, how they are protected, how they support themselves, I'd be grateful." He has enough of all this talking and wants to get out of his armor.

"Yes, I think I can have something for you later in the evening."

"Good, then I'd like to get cleaned up now and I hope the kitchen has some stew left." He turns to walk away but a polite cough by Josephine stops him.

"If you could spare just a moment, Herald?"

Carver swallows a sigh and turns back to her. He can do many things but he can't be rude to Josie.

"Thank you your Worship," Josephine says with the sweetest smile. "I have a visitor waiting in my office who would like to speak with you. I'm sure it will only be a moment." She opens the door to her office and ushers him in. A young man in heavy armor stands next to her desk, looking with interest over the books on the book shelf.

He turns to Carver and bows his head shortly. "My name is Krem, I got a message for the Inquisition and Lady Montilyet said that I should wait for your return."

Josephine smiles at the young man. "No need to call me Lady Montilyet, my name is Josephine. This here is Herald Carver, tell him of your proposal."

The man blushes a little as he looks at her. "Thank you... Josephine." He turns to Carver and squares his armored shoulders. "My company commander, The Iron Bull, wants to offer the services of our company to the Inquisition. We are the Bull Chargers, we're well known for the work we do."

"I'm interested," Carver says, "but how do I know if your group is worth it?"

Krem nods. "Good thinking. We're finishing up a job at the Storm Coast, you should come and see us work there. We also have another contact who would like to meet you there."

"Another contact?"

"You'll see. Come to the Storm Coast." The young man bows to Josephine. "Thank you Lady Josephine for helping me."

"It was my pleasure," Josephine says with a little blush.

Krem gives a nod to Carver as he leaves the office.

Josephine looks after him with her head laid to the side. "What a nice young man. I would place his accent as tevinter, I think."

"The Iron Bull doesn't sound like a tevinter name though."

"Oh no, he's qunari," Josephine says. "His Chargers seem to be an eclectic group of people from all over Thedas."

"How do you know?"

Josephine smiles sweetly. "As Krem has said, they are well known, one of the most prestigious mercenary companies working in Orlais. I've heard from them from a noble family who hired them to guard their trade caravans. They not only eliminated the bandits but also found who leaked the necessary information beforehand. If we can afford them, they're definitely worth their money."

"Do I want to know how poor we are at the moment?"

Josephine shuffles a few papers around and then pulls out a letter with a colorful emblem that takes up half the page. "The Trevelyan family, who my family has good relations with, have provided us with a generous donation. We should be set for a while."

Carver squints at Josephine, trying to look through the smile she wears like a barrier. "And what do they want in return?"

Josephine's sweet smile never wavers. "Nothing of course, they only act for the good of the country. But we could do them a favour..."

"Of course we could," Carver groans. "Does it happen to be at the Storm Coast? If not, put it on the list."

"Of course, your Worship."

"I hate it when people call me that," Carver mumbles as he leaves her office. When he looks back, Josephine is quietly snickering to herself.

As he walks out of the chantry, nodding at everyone who greets him, Leliana comes out of her tent and falls into step with him. "Herald Carver, a word?"

"In my experience it's always more than a word but nevermind. By the way— " he grins at her, "I remember you now. From the chantry in Lothering."

Leliana smiles and looks to the ground. "It was a long time ago, you were just a little boy."

"I remember that you sang and told stories."

"Yes, I did. I remember your sister loving my stories." She looks up to Carver with a grin. "You on the other hand..."

"I loved them too, I just didn't show it." Bring an awkward, hormone addled teenager didn't help him much back then.

Leliana laughs and for a moment she looks like the young Sister he remembers from Lothering. "Those were different times..."

Carver sighs, he doesn't want the memories of happier times in Lothering come up in his mind because when they do, they soon blend over into darkspawn flooding the land. "What did you want to talk about?"

"The Grey Wardens."

As always, something nags insistently at the back of his mind at that word. As if he should know something about them but forgot it.

"I've been trying to reach the Wardens through my contacts and with letters to Vigil's Keep." Leliana shakes her head. "I even wrote to the Anderfels."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Leliana says. "As if they have disappeared."

"Is that something Wardens tend to do?"

"The Breach may not be a Blight but it's not far off. I had expected the Wardens to come to _us_ by now."

They've reached Carver's hut, where a slender woman comes out with a still steaming empty pitcher, promising a bowl of hot water inside that Carver can't wait to get to. He turns to Leliana. "What do you want me to do?"

"I've heard that you're planning to visit the Storm Coast. I've received notes of sightings of a group of Grey Wardens there that I hope you might contact."

"I'll keep an eye open. Anything else?"

Leliana looks at him amused, clearly aware of his impatience. "A troop scouting out the Storm Coast has been captured by the Blades of Hessarian. I hope you can find them and rescue them."

"The Blades of what?"

"I've put a few papers on your desk for you, explaining who they are and what risk they pose."

"I even get bedtime reading, how lucky."

Leliana inclines her head in a nod but Carver can see that she grins in the shadow of her shawl. "Enjoy your rest, Herald Carver."

He closes the door behind him with a sigh and manages to undress and wash himself, shovels a few spoons of stew in his mount and falls facefirst on the bed, ignoring the papers on his desk in favour of sleep.

*~~~(())~~~*

"Your Worship," Scout Harding says, wiping the rain from her face, "for what it's worth, welcome to the Storm Coast."

"What a nice place," Carver says sarcastically. Already he feels the rainwater running down his back and the leather on his shoulders getting heavier with the water. "Does it ever stop?"

"Occasionally." Scout Harding says, "but not for long."

"You owe me for this, Junior," Varric growls as he pulls a scarf tight around his neck. "I told you that I hate this wet place and you still made me come along."

"I thought the rain would make you grow a bit."

Varric stares at him with a frown and only looks away when Scout Harding laughs out. "Don't encourage him," he says to her. "Next he'll think that he's funny."

Scout Harding snickers to herself. "Well, you could wait out this rain in the tent but frankly, it'll probably be over in a minute and then it'll start again ten minutes later."

"Might as well get going, we can't get any wetter than we already are."

Varric mumbles something unintelligible and stomps over to the box with potions and grenades.

Carver calls after him, "I buy you a beer when we're back in Haven."

"At least two," Varric calls back as he stuffs his belt with potions. "Make that three since you're not paying for anything anyway."

"Herald of Andraste drinks free," Carver says and flexes his Herald-hand. "This shit got to have at least one benefit." He checks his own belt and goes over to Varric to add another health potion to it.

Scout Harding beckons him under the cover of a tarp to show him a map of the area. "Your worship— "

"Maker's arse, stop calling me that, please."

Scout Harding blushes a little and nods. "Herald Carver, I've marked the camp of the Blades of Hessarian here. They are... not friendly, but good fighters. If we had a way of bringing them on our side, they could be a valuable asset. The fishermen said they met a group of Grey Wardens at the coast here, and here," she points to scribbled crosses on the map, "but that's been a while ago, we haven't found the Wardens themselves so far."

"Did you see or hear about a group of mercenaries at the coast?"

"The Bull's Chargers?"

"Yes. Do you know them?"

"Not personally, but they've been in the area for at least nine days. They should be at the coast, down that way, if you want to find them." Scout Harding points to a trampled path through rain dripping trees. She looks up to the sky. "Look, it stopped raining."

"Better get going then," Carver says and waves at Varric, Vivienne, Cassandra and the two soldiers Cullen could spare, Lupas and Michelle, to follow him. He decided to bring Vivienne along this time, instead of Solas, to see what she can do. So far, he's impressed that she endures the dreadful weather without any complaints.

After walking for ten minutes towards the sound of waves crashing against cliffs, the rain starts again. It hardly matters anymore because they are all soaked anyway. Except for Vivienne, whose elegant white robes seem to repel the rainwater. He should ask her about that.

As they come closer to the shore, the forest thins out and what little cover they had from the rain disappears. Nothing protects them from the gale hitting their faces. Carver pulls his scarf tighter but water is already running down his neck again. Rain drips from his eyelashes. But under all the annoyance, something else is pulling at his senses.

"Wait," he says, holding up his hand. "Something is here."

The two ex-templars nod. "Yes, something big."

Vivienne looks at them critically. "Whatever are you all talking about?"

"I don't know either," Varric says. "Cassandra?"

"You feel something?" Cassandra asks Carver.

"Yes, a presence, I can't describe it but it's huge, like..." In that moment, a creature rises up from the beach, flapping giant, fleshy wings. "A dragon." Carver stares as the massive dragon rises up into the sky. He has never seen a dragon before and this one is close enough to burn them all to sticks in seconds if it wanted to. Thankfully, it turns the other way and flies away over the cliffs.

"You felt the dragon?" Varric asks.

"I guess I did."

"Anything else you feel?"

"There's a rift not far from here."

Varric sighs. "Of course there is, I was starting feel lonely without any demons around."

"Herald Carver," Michelle waves him over to a boulder she's standing on. "There's a fight going on over there and at least one of them is a qunari."

"That must be the Chargers. Let's see how they fare."

The wet sand of the beach slows them down and by the time they've made it over to the skirmish, it's almost over. A mage in long, immaculate robes, slowly retreats backwards as he keeps shooting fireballs at the mercenaries. But his shots get deflected by a magical barrier that seems to be impenetrable.

The qunari, apparently now fed up with the lack of progress, scoops up a slender elf and sets them on his shoulders and charges towards the mage. The elf on his shoulders laughs and throws ice bolts at the mage until he is frozen solid and shatters with one blow from the qunari's axe.

With the fight over, Carver approaches the qunari, squinting against the sun. The elf still sits on those wide shoulders and holds on to one horn. Suddenly, with a joyful cry, they jump down from their elevated position and run towards Carver.

"Carver! Carver!"

He knows that voice.

The elf flies into his arms and hugs him tight. Carver looks down on her. "Merrill?"

"Ma vhenan, I found you," she says and looks up to him with a bright smile.

"Maker's breath, Merrill!" He can't believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Finding you of course."

"Your hair is longer."

She laughs at him and it's like the sun has finally reached his heart. "Yours is too."

"Merrill." He stares at her and it takes him several deep breaths until his mind catches up and he pulls her close and kisses her.

She wraps her arms around his neck and her lips are so soft and sweet and she fits to him like a piece of himself had been missing all this time.

*~~~(())~~~*

* * *

 _Surprise! XD_


	15. Chapter 15

_Coming up: Worldbuilding and rambling. Lots of stuff that will become important at a later point but can't be revealed quite yet. I swear, I have notes, there is a point to all this, several points!_

* * *

Merrill takes his Herald-hand and turns it palm up. He flinches, pulling away. He doesn't want this thing between them.

"Let me see," she says.

His resistance melts away when she looks at him. He opens his palm up and focuses on the green glowing cut in his palm. The magic light hisses, throwing sparks as it always does. But then Merrill slides her finger along the cut, mumbling words he doesn't understand and the hissing stops. The light calms down, the glow softly pulsing as she strokes over his palm.

"It's beautiful," Merrill says.

"Now it is. Usually it isn't like this." It reminds him of the soft tendrils of gossamer light he saw in the Fade with her. "What did you do?"

She examines his hand, turning it sideways and sniffs at it. "The color reminded me of something I found in a book recently, a kind of veil fire and there was this poem with it and it looked — oh, did you know I found books?"

A smile grows on his face, it feels like it has to crack his skin to undo the frown that has carved deep into his face. "No, what kind of books?"

"Old books, dalish, some even in old elvish or translations of elvish books." Her eyes are wide with excitement and the happiness in his chest just from seeing her so excited is almost painful. "The shems call the area the Exalted Plains and Hawke took us through there because — "

"Wait, hold that thought," Carver interrupts, "I have to talk to the qunari there for a bit and then I want to hear all about how you traveled through the Dales and what my sisters are doing."

After the short chat with the Iron Bull, he returns to Merrill and Varric sitting on a felled tree and comparing notes and drawings.

Varric points to a line on a hand drawn map. "Look, our shadowy friends covered quite some distance."

"We sailed to Antiva first, Isabela took in some cargo there and then we sailed all the way back to Cumberland." Merrill traces the line on the Waking Sea to Kirkwall and the neighbouring mountains and hovers there. "It was strange seeing Kirkwall from afar but Hawke and Isabela didn't want to go to port there."

"At least it was still standing," Varric mumbles quietly.

"Yes," Merrill says with a smile. "And there was no smoke, nothing was burning."

Varric gives her a reluctant smile and takes a few steps towards the shore. He stands there, looking over the sea towards the horizon. Somewhere over there must be Kirkwall. Carver can't say that he misses it much but Varric? Varric always loved the city.

Carver sits down next to Merrill and holds his map next to hers. "Why did you go to Cumberland?"

"Isabela had cargo to deliver there and also, Hawke and Anders wanted to go to the big mages place."

Carver looks on his own map. "The College of Magi?"

"Yes. We all went with them, the College is abandoned now and full of mage refugees. Hawke wanted to help them, we went there often. I made sure to stay at Fenris' side all the time, the city is huge! I thought Kirkwall was big but Cumberland is even bigger and so confusing."

Varric comes back to them, his shoulders held rigid. "I should have left you a bigger ball of twine."

Merrill smiles at him and takes his hand for a moment. "It would have been too big, it was better to just stay with Fenris." The rain begins once again and Carver and Merrill quickly put the maps away.

"Fenris went to the College of Magi? Voluntarily?" Carver asks.

Merrill gives him a strange look. "Fenris goes where Hawke goes. At least he did then."

"What do you mean, are they not together now?" Carver braces himself for terrible news.

Merrill takes his Herald-hand and wipes the raindrops away from it. The mark in his palm glows softly. "They love each other very much, I know that and they know it too. But Hawke... she's not the same anymore. And she said that Fenris was killing himself to make her whole and she doesn't want that for him."

"They broke up?"

"No, not really," Merrill says, closing his fingers over his palm. "They just wanted to do things apart from each other, until they will meet again with the Inquisition."

"Don't let Cassandra hear that," Varric says, "she keeps nagging me about Hawke and where she is."

"You can tell her that she'll find us," Merrill says.

"Let's keep that a secret for a while, Daisy. I'm not sure what exactly our Seeker plans to do with Hawke."

Merrill nods. "Fenris and Anders took a caravan through Nevarra, they wanted to go to Hasmal eventually, to help the tevinter refugees there."

"Fenris and Anders?" Varric shakes his head in disbelief. "Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."

"I think they learned to get along," Merrill says with a shrug. "Hawke and Bethany got some kind of secret assignment about finding Grey Wardens. That's why we took the ship over to the Dales."

"The Grey Wardens?" Carver asks. "Really now? I wonder who gave them that assignment." He eyes one of the ravens with the red eyes in the tree above them, waiting to deliver messages to Leliana. How many of these ravens did Leliana send out into the world? "As it happens, we're looking for the Grey Wardens too, that's why we're here, apart from meeting Bull's Chargers and you."

Merrill stands up and shakes water from her hair. "Should we go then? Under the trees the rain might not be so bad."

Carver stands and looks at Merrill with a stupid smile on his face. "You're coming with us." He hadn't quite realized that yet.

"I go where you go, vhenan," Merrill says and picks up her staff.

Carver smiles so hard, his cheeks begin to hurt.

* * *

As they trudge through the cliffs on foot because the terrain is too difficult for horses, they follow paths along overgrown dwarven architecture, towers, and statues. Merrill, untroubled by the rain, happily tells them of her adventures in the Dales with Bethany and Marian.

"After three days we found ruins, elven ruins! The Wardens had set up camp there but they were gone and apparently they didn't even look around because there were books there! Elven books!"

Carver eyes the heavy pack Merrill has tied to her back. "Did you take all the books with you?"

"Of course! So much knowledge, I couldn't just leave them there. With the orlesians still fighting in the Exalted Plains, they weren't safe there. There's also deserters, Freemen of the Dales. They burn everything." Merrill shakes her head with a sigh and feels for the pack on her back with a hand. "They would have burned the books. I already had to leave so many things behind in the College."

"Maybe we can get your things from Cumberland to Haven," Carver says.

"Oh, that would be wonderful," Merrill says with a bright smile.

A shadow falls on them, the sun somehow shining even though the rain keeps beating down on them. "Hey, Herald," the Iron Bull says.

"Yes?"

"If we go through there, we come to a fortified camp. Krem said you're looking for the Blades of Something? Could be them."

"Do you know anything about them?"

The qunari shakes his massive head, water flinging from his horns. "Naw, there were not part of the job, so we avoided them. All I can say is that, by the looks of it, they build good walls." The qunari gives him a nod and falls back to his troop of Chargers.

Varric looks over his shoulder to the Iron Bull. "Can't help it, he makes me nervous. Had too many of his kind trying to smash my head in in Kirkwall."

"Yeah." Carver looks after the qunari. The explosive conclusion of the qunari invasion in Kirkwall not only almost killed his sister, it also destroyed half the city. Watching this qunari laugh with his team is unsettling. "He's not a Tal-Vashoth, by the way, he follows the qun and is a Ben-Hassrath, a spy."

"He told you that?" Varric stares at him in disbelief.

Merrill looks up from the flowers she cuts off a bush. "Yes, he told me that too. The Qun leaders want to know what's going on and he tells them what he wants to tell."

"I seem to remember this spy business differently," Varric says, shaking his head.

Merrill giggles at that and Carver decides that despite all the rain and the constant drip of cold water down his back, this is now the best day of his life. Nothing will squash his good mood today.

The Blades of Hessarian are trying very hard though.

"You have to kill our leader," says a warrior with a pasty face, who caught up with them next to the impressive palisade that secures the camp of the Blades. "Then you'll be our leader and we'll be loyal to you forever."

"Until someone kills _me_ then." Carver stares the warrior down. "I thought you guys are the true warriors of Andraste, I'm the Herald of Andraste, shouldn't you be excited to join me?"

The warrior looks at his feet, scuffling nervously. "Our laws dictate absolute loyalty to our leader. As long as he has not been beaten in a fight, we have to follow him."

"That sounds very stupid." Carver takes a few steps back to speak quietly with his companions. "Should I fight him? Are these Blades worth it?"

Cassandra nods thoughtfully. "From what I have heard, they would be quite useful on our side and since they are considered by many as warriors for Andraste, they could help with our reputation."

"If the Herald of Andraste can't even get those Blades of Andraste on his side," Varric says, "that might put us into a bad light. Apart from the scouts they hopefully have taken prisoner and are waiting for us to rescue them."

"Good point," Carver says. He looks over to the Chargers. "You know, I have half a mind to send the Iron Bull in there to fight."

Varric laughs out. "And have those andrastian-down-to-their-smalls being forced to follow a qunari who is faithful to the qun? That's almost too cruel."

Carver sighs loudly. "A pity. Well, I better see who that leader is." He wipes the rain from his face for the hundredths time today. This place could be truly lovely if it would just stop raining for once in a while. Even his legs are soaked now from trudging through the high, wet grass.

Merrill comes up to his side and he notices for the first time that she's not barefoot. "You're wearing shoes."

She shakes her foot to show him the soft leather boots she's wearing. "Isabela gave me these. 'No barefoot elves on my ship!' she said." She looks up to him as they walk to the gate in the palisade. "Are you really the Herald of Andraste?"

He looks to her and shrugs. "Honestly? I don't know." He holds up the hand with the green glowing cut. "I'm just here, I have this stupid hand and if I call myself the Herald, people listen to me instead of throwing rotten fruit at me."

Merrill smiles at him but then she frowns. "They say that Andraste gave you this mark on your hand, do you think that's true?"

"I have no idea." Carver flexes his Herald-hand. If he concentrates, he can make the cut spark with green light. "All I know is that I can close rifts with this thing and nobody else can do that. So, I'm doing that."

"You can help, so you're helping." Merrill looks up to him and smiles. "You're doing good, Carver Hawke."

The warmth in chest feels like the sun itself as he smiles back at her. "I'm so glad you're here, Merrill."

* * *

The fight with the Blade's leader is brutal but short and ends with the man stumbling into his sword. Carver catches a smile on Merrill's face when that happens and he wonders what exactly she did with her faintly glowing staff.

The Blades swear their loyalty to him and Cassandra leaves a raven with them for further communications. They also have some more notes about rifts in the area and where they've seen Wardens but Carver gets the feeling that they would rather be left alone now to celebrate the death of the old leader.

"When you need us, we will come to Haven," Ivor of the Blades says. "But for now we will watch over the coast in your name."

"Fine," Carver says, itching to make some more meaningful progress at this dreadful place. "As long as you lend your knowledge and swords to the fight when I need you."

"This we swear," Ivor says and bows with his hand on his chest.

From there on, they continue their trek over the cliffs and along the coast, the rescued scouts coming with them. A surprising amount of boats bob in the waves at the shore and they pick out a few useful supplies like bandages from boxes in there.

"What are these boats? Where did they come from?" Carver climbs into one, noticing the solid craftsmanship. They don't look like boats you would cross the Waking Sea with but they do seem sturdy enough to take along the coast for quite a distance.

Krem comes over to him and hands him a leather pack with food. It crackles lightly in his hand from an enchantment that seems to keep the dry meat and bread in there fresh for a long time. "Look, your worship, this here has a templar symbol."

"It's just Carver, alright? Or Herald." He looks around in the boat and sees more marks that could have been templar symbols before the harsh sea water has eaten away at the paint. "Why did templars land here and where did they go?"

Nobody has an answer and that seems to be the theme of the rest of the day. They find notes and vacated Warden camps but no lead as to where they are going now.

Varric reads one of the notes as they leave an assortment of ramshackle buildings behind. "This here says, apart from how sexy those fishermen were, that they're searching for someone and that they feel darkspawn in the ground below."

"Right here?"

Varric points at a statue of a stocky dwarf. "With all the dwarven stuff around here, I'd be surprised if there aren't a few entryways to the Deep Roads around here."

"The Breach might attract the darkspawn and draw them to the surface," Cassandra says.

"Just what we need," Carver grumbles and stomps on.

All along the shore, templar boats show up and still no clue why they came upon shore here and where they went then. After many hours of useless walking, Carver sends the Chargers back to camp with the scouts.

They can move faster with a smaller group and with Cassandra, Varric, Vivienne, Merrill and two ex-templars they are well set for closing rifts.

Climbing over sharp, hexagonal steles high above the shore, Carver feels a rift nearby and is almost relieved to finally have something useful to do. The rift twists near the water and he points it out to his companions, when the hairs on his neck stand up. "Dragon. The dragon is back."

The two ex-templars stare at him with wide eyes and nod.

"You feel the dragon?" Merrill asks, brushing against his side. "Is this new?"

"I don't know, I never met any dragons before." He looks down to her hands and sees faint glow on them, some spell she has prepared already.

"Are we going to fight it?"

"Void no. I don't even know how we would do that."

"I'm glad," Merrill says. "The last dragon I saw was actually Asha'bellanar and fighting her would have been a bad idea."

Vivienne, who has endured the constant rain and all the walking and climbing with remarkable placidity, steps up to Merrill and speaks for the first time in hours. "My dear, this Asha'bellanar, who would that be?"

Merrill smiles at Vivienne, unperturbed by her slightly patronizing tone. "The humans call her Flemeth I believe."

"Flemeth the shapeshifting witch?" Cassandra turns to Varric. "She was real?"

Varric clutches his hand to his chest. "Seeker, you wound me, why would I lie?"

Cassandra snorts in answer. "Among all your tall tales, how was I to know..."

"Tales. Tall tales she says." Varric shakes his head. "All my effort, wasted."

"Oh, stop it you dramatic dwarf," Cassandra hisses at him.

"Trust me," Carver says, "if those ridiculous stories involve my sister? Probably true. She always attracted shit like that like a dead nug attracts flies."

A tone comes from Vivienne that almost sounds like a laugh but surely that cannot be true.

Carver picks a path down the mountain side, trying to get to the rift without getting too close to the dragon. Merrill follows him easily, her feet finding hold where he slips. He turns to her, holding his hand out to help her over the edge of a cliff, even though she doesn't need it. "So Hawke never took you to the Bone Pit? There was a dragon there I heard."

Merrill laughs out. "Oh no, she took Fenris and Sebastian I think?"

"And me," Varric grumbles from the back. "That damn mine was almost as bad as the Deep Roads and it not only had a huge dragon but also these miniature dragons, annoying bitey things."

Carver grins. He only heard about the fight in the Bone Pit back then from people in the market. It had angered him that Hawke had not taken him along but he's left that behind. Now he just would love to know if he could have sensed that dragon too or if this templar-sensing-dragons thing is caused by the Breach.

As they come closer, the sound of the rift already reaching them with the wind, a bright spark explodes just a few paces away from them.

"What was that?" Carver yells as he scrambles back.

"Some dragons can shoot lightning," Merril says calmly. "They burn you alive without fire."

"Has it noticed us?" Carver aks, holding up his shield.

"No, Herald," Michelle says, peeking over the hill towards the shore where they had seen the dragon before. "It's fighting a giant."

"A giant."

"Yes, Herald."

"A giant?" he asks the world in general because this is all getting ridiculous. "What's next? Hurlocks in orlesian tutus?"

He crawls up the hillside and looks over the edge. The giant raises his fists and beats down on the dragon's head while the dragon shoots blinding balls of lightning from its mouth that hit the giant square in the chest. It doesn't seem to disturb him at all.

"I didn't know giants came this far south," Cassandra says.

"We're going to give this a wide berth, a very wide berth." Carver climbs down from the hillside and signals his companions to follow him.

"Through there," Merrill says and points at a canyon at the bottom of a dwarven statue. "I hope we don't have to kill the dragon. They're wonderful creatures."

"No objections towards giants?"

Merrill thinks for a bit. "I'm not sure what giants are. Are they darkspawn?"

"Giants never came up in templar training," Carver says with a shrug. "With the stuff these rifts are spitting out, I find that I didn't even learn enough about demons."

Three rifts need closing along this shore, one even far out on an island, connected to the mainland by rickety bridges. Vivienne and Merrill proof to be a deadly effective combination who leave almost nothing for Varric to shoot from afar. Cassandra, Michelle and Lupas slay the demons close to his sides and Carver can close the rift without interruptions.

"Almost too easy," he mumbles as he scoops up green demon slime.

"Andraste's dirty knickers," Varric swears, "don't say such things. Who knows what the Maker has in store for us now."

"Sorry." Carver ties the bag with demon slime closed and wipes his hands clean in the grass. Hopefully someone has use for the acidic smelling stuff.

True to form, on the way back to the mainland, a bunch of dragonlings attack them, which Varric identifies as the 'annoying bitey things' he met in the Bone Pit. Carver has to promise him to never ever tempt fate like that again.

Since the maps say that this was the last rift and Carver can't sense any more either, they can finally walk back to the camp and get out of their wet clothes. A fire is roaring in the middle of the camp and Carver wants to promote Lace Harding to Commander of all forces just for that. They sit around the fire in their smalls, woolen blankets draped over their shoulders and eat thick soup that should have earned Harding another promotion for providing it.

Merrill eats quickly and gathers her pack. "I have to make a drawing of that dragon and the rifts." She disappears into the tent and Carver looks after her, hurrying to finish his soup.

But Cassandra is faster than him and unfolds the map, puts a finger on Haven and traces a line towards it. "I would suggest tomorrow we head towards the north of Lake Calenhad. We should meet the Imperial Highway and ride back on it on the western side of the lake towards the crossroad that will take us to Haven," she says, looking at Carver for approval.

He swallows down the remains of his soup, throwing a wistful glance at the tent Merrill disappeared in, and studies the map. "Or we stay on the eastern side, ride on the Imperial Highway through Kinloch and Calenhad to the Hinterlands and stop at Redcliffe."

"But that will take us at least twice as long if not more."

"I'm aware," Carver says, "but I want to meet the mages as soon as possible. If we go back to Haven first, that will cost as more than ten days. We don't know how long the Breach will stay stable and we need all the help we can get."

"As you say, Herald." Cassandra nods, a frown on her forehead. "I will send a raven that we need provisions brought to us."

"Yes, good. They should meet us on the Imperial Highway in Bannorn Kinloch."

"Now, I won't keep you any longer, Herald," Cassandra says with a smile. She glances towards the tent. "I'm sure you have other things on your mind right now."

Carver can feel himself blushing and tries to hide his face as he gets up. "See you in the morning."

"Don't do what I wouldn't do," Varric calls after him. "And I better not hear any complaints in the morning."

"Shut up," Carver growls and ducks into the tent.

A lantern casts warm light and on the cot sits Merrill, tilting to one side, her chin resting on her chest. She is fast asleep. The quill has dropped from her hand and the open inkwell miraculously still stands upright between her legs. A book that she used as a pad for her paper has slipped to the ground, along with a bunch of her drawings.

Carver stoppers the inkwell and puts it aside and carefully places the quill next to it. Slipping his hand under her head and legs, he pulls her down on the cot so that she can sleep comfortably. She sighs, curls up on the side and mumbles something in her sleep.

Picking up the book and the papers form the floor, he studies her drawings in the light of the lantern. A sketched dragon stretches across one whole page and is surrounded by several detailed drawings of specific features like the scales, teeth, and electric lightning. Another drawing depicts the giant and the next image shows the giant, the dragon and a tiny figure that looks like Varric for scale. The drawings look lively but informative at the same time and show real skill.

Carver smiles at Merrill's sleeping form. He always knew that she was so talented.

As he puts the drawings between the pages of the book, another image flutters to the ground. He picks it up and turns it around. This one doesn't show a dragon, it's a sketch of him. His sketch version holds his Herald-hand up, the rope of light shooting from it, crashing against the crystalline form of a rift. The drawing is unfinished, rough lines depicting the action, the only detailed part is his face. He is smiling. He looks happy.

He puts the drawing into the book and crawls on the cot to lie down behind her. He pulls her close, just like as if they were back at Sundermount again, when she took him along to gather herbs and he was so nervous that he tripped over his own feet. Now, he's just way too exhausted to be nervous and too happy to worry.

He falls asleep with his nose pressed to her neck.


	16. Chapter 16

The rain still falls relentlessly. The path they've been following turns into an actual road, its edges marked by carefully placed rocks. Lace Harding and her scouts recently left them to move further along the coast to the east but the Inquisition troop and the Bull's Chargers make for a big group of people stomping along these old roads. The few horses they have trod along, they share them to give people a rest sometimes but they don't have enough horses for everyone and there's no horse big enough to carry the Iron Bull.

By now, the cliffs of the coast have mellowed out into the rolling hills of the coastlands of Highever. They pass by the occasional house and sometimes even something that could be considered a village, but all of them are abandoned.

"Why did all the people leave?" Merrill asks quietly. She sits behind Carver on the horse, leaning against him, dozing from the gentle sway as they ride. But now she is awake, watching the landscape. "They had houses, farms here. Why did they leave all that behind?"

"Maybe they were just tired of it all," Carver says. "First all the refugees from the south, fleeing the Blight, then darkspawn and Blight infection all around them. And now rogue mages and templars spilling over the lands. And as if the war is not enough, the sky is torn and demons rise from the ground."

"Once you know what a home feels like, it's hard to leave that behind." Merrill looks over to another abandoned house, its broken door swinging in the wind. "They must have been very scared."

Carver follows her gaze. The windswept trees, bent over from years of leaning in the storms, the way the houses all have their roofs down low towards the coast. The little lean-to huts with logs for the fire. The neat rows of elfroot and spinach in the gardens, now wilting from neglect. It all looks so familiar to him.

"I think I've been here before."

"On your way here?" Merrill asks.

"No, I mean long ago, when I was a child. Maybe not exactly here but in this area."

Cassandra rides up to their side. "I thought your family was from Lothering?"

"No, we were from Amaranthine originally." Carver tries to recall the vague images from that time but there's not much. But he remembers the years on the road, the long trek from village to village, staying at one place for days or weeks and then moving on again.

"For a while, we lived on the road, never stayed in one place for long." As a child, he didn't understand why they moved so much and where they were going but he never questioned it. It was even fun sometimes.

"As we traveled, father would take up work at a farm or in a smithy. Mother helped in the house as best as she could in exchange for us staying there. I think she learned cooking that way."

"She didn't know how to cook?" Cassandra asks.

"Mother was a noble lady, she never had to cook. She knew embroidery and such things and worked as a seamstress in Amaranthine. Father made most of our meals and then Marian helped with that. But there's not much sewing to do out here I guess. She had to learn to cook and housekeeping while dad worked. Marian watched me and Bethany and we —"

For the first time it occurs to him how much had been expected of their older sister. Bethany and he had been around six years old back then and Marian no more than ten. What a pile of responsibility to put on a child of that age.

A druffalo, that they freed from an abandoned pen, trots up to him, mooing, and pulls Carver out of his thoughts.

Varric rides up to Carver, looking at the animal following them. "We have a new friend?"

Carver grins. "The walking steak?"

Merrill stretches with a yawn and lets out a small giggle. "Don't be friends with animals you intend to eat, the Keeper always said."

"I'm not gonna hunt it but if it keeps following us..." Carver shrugs. "We could definitely use the meat, I can hear the Iron Bull's stomach from here."

A laughter like a rumbling thunderstorm comes from the qunari and he grins widely. "Good to know that you notice these things, boss."

Carver dips his head to him and turns to Cassandra.

"Solas should meet us before we reach Redcliffe, with two of our mages," Carver says to her.

She looks thoughtful ahead. "Do you think we need that advantage? The rebel mages appear rather desperate to me."

"I don't want them to feel _dis_ advantaged. Desperate people do desperate things." He has seen enough desperate mages to last him another lifetime. Mages who chose tranquility to avoid their Harrowing, mages that gave in to demons when they felt cornered. "I'm a templar, you're a seeker, they shouldn't trust us at all."

"I see your point, Herald," Cassandra says. She spurs her horse on and holds a piece of paper to her leg to write her message on it. Then she stretches out her hand for a raven. One of the animals comes flying through the trees and lands on her hand and Cassandra slides the paper into the tiny tube on its leg.

The raven rises up and then turns around and flies straight towards Carver. He holds his arm protective over Merrill behind him. The raven swoops by, the tip of its wing brushing his cheek, its red eye staring at him and then flies away, a small black dot disappearing into the haze.

The druffalo moos, possibly at the bird or at an exceptionally tasty bushel of grass.

"The ravens are creepy," Merrill says.

"I agree."

He stares at his Herald-hand, the mark sparking erratically again. He has taken his templar dose of lyrium early this morning, hoping that the effect of overestimating himself will wear off quickly. It seems to have an effect on the mark though, making it spark and hiss and hurt. Vivienne eyes his hand critically and he wishes Solas were here to look at it.

Merrill slides her hand along his arm from the back. "Let me talk to it."

"If it helps," Carver says with a shrug and puts his palm under her fingers.

Merrill murmurs something in that language he doesn't understand, a soft glow emanating from her hand. The mark calms down, he immediately feels the pain recede as the hissing stops.

"I can't wait to show Solas how you do that," Carver says. "He's going to be thrilled."

"Oh will he?" Merrill asks and laughs out. "That's good, some people don't like it when I know things."

"No, yes, I'm sure he will." Now he worries. Will Solas acknowledge Merrill's skill or feel threatened by it? He doesn't even know what Solas' opinion on bloodmagic is. Come to think of it, he hasn't asked Vivienne about that either.

The path winds over a hill and the ruin of a fortress at a lake comes into view. A few paces back, houses are huddled against the harsh mountainside.

Carver studies the familiar mountains and the glossy surface of the lake. "That keep looks familiar but the lake..."

"The lake is new," Cassandra says. "They flooded the old village during the Fifth Blight. Refugees carried the taint and were moved to the Deep Roads under the village. Then the darkspawn came up to the surface and infected everyone. They opened the dam to hold them off and kill the infected."

"Everyone was infected?" Carver wonders.

"Apparently, yes." Cassandra shrugs. "By the time the Wardens came through here, the village was already flooded and what remained of the citizens of Crestwood had moved up the hills to rebuild."

"What a terrible death," Merrill says quietly.

They get off the horses as the path winds up the hill, leaving the ruined keep behind them. It still rains, water keeps running down Carver's back.

"Rain... so much rain," he complains.

"Yes," Merrill says with a bright smile, looking up to the clouds. "Isn't it lovely?"

Carver's heart jumps in his chest and he can't help but smile. "Yes. Yes it is."

The path they climb becomes less steep and widens. Between the hills, grass-roofed houses cover every horizontal surface. Little gardens and decorated flower pots speak of a living community but as they follow the path through the village, they hardly see another living soul. A few children wave at them, before harsh words call them back into a house.

"Is it just me," Varric says, "or does it feel really cold here?"

"Do you want my cape?" Merrill asks him.

Varric chuckles softly. "Not that kind of cold, Daisy."

"Oh, of course, you meant how people act." She shakes her head. "Silly me."

"Nothing silly about that." Varric's eyes glimmer. "Andraste's arse, I've missed this. Never change, Daisy."

Merrill smiles sheepishly and points out a garden with beautiful flowers but Carver grabs her hand to hold it. He knows. Merrill always acts like she doesn't care that people call her naive and silly but he knows that that's all it is, an act.

"Hey," he whispers quietly to her, holding her hand tight.

"Hey," she whispers back, smiling at him from under her lashes. "Do you know why people are hiding from us?"

"No, I don't. Let's just find someone who can sell us horses and then we'll be on our way again."

A window opens in the grass-roofed house with the beautiful flower garden and a high pitched voice screams at them, "Heretics! Traitors! Go away!"

"So it's _that_ song, good to know," Carver says quietly.

Merrill squeezes his hand tighter. "Be careful, vhenan. They don't like you here."

"They haven't thrown rotten fruit yet, we're still good."

A man carrying a dusty sack on his back crosses their path, looking at his feet and pretending not to notice the large group of humans, elves and even a dwarf and a qunari.

"Serah," Carver calls out in his most friendly voice, "can we acquire horses and maybe some fresh vegetables anywhere around here?"

The man scowls at him. "You're that Herald they spoke of."

"Who spoke of me?"

The man wrinkles his nose. "Poncy fellows, goddy all in nicey."

Carver has the distinct feeling that Sera would understand this man perfectly, unlike him. "And they said what?"

The frown on the man's forehead gets even deeper. "Yourrey pretend. Not to be trusted."

Carver lifts his left hand to show the glowing cut in his palm. "I have this hand here though."

"Magic," the man sneers, holding up his arm as if he could shield himself from its power.

Vivienne steps up beside him, brushing some imaginary dust from her dress as she speaks to Carver with a low voice. "I don't think we can convince this person. I do have certain methods at my disposal —"

"— and that's very much not what we'll be doing," Carver quickly interrupts, keeping his voice equally low. "The last thing we need is scaring these people with powerful magic."

The man sets the sack down, apparently now more invested in the conversation. "Thems were all mages too. Tevinter."

Cassandra shakes her head. "Tevinter mages? Here? That's highly unlikely."

"We send them off too." He grins viciously at that and Carver can just picture him, going after a Tevinter mage with a pitchfork. He's lucky to still be alive, if that was a real mage.

"Are you sure they were from Tevinter?" Cassandra asks.

The man looks her up and down, noting the greatsword on her back and seems to find her worthy of speaking to. What follows is a surge of words that sound like a demon's senseless babbling and Cassandra looks as bewildered as Carver feels.

"He's sure," an unfamiliar voice says behind Carver and Cassandra. Next to Merrill stands one of the Bull's Chargers, a dalish elf with a strangely formed and decorated bow that she holds in her hand like a club. "Says he knows what tevinter sounds like and they weren't afraid to use magic. Unlike an apostate would be." She throws a curious look at Merrill with her staff, but then turns back to Carver. "He also said that the mayor, Gregory Dedrick, might be willing to sell you something."

"Thanks for that," Carver nods to her. "Your name is?"

"Dalish, just call me Dalish." While she looks at Carver as she speaks, her eyes keep straining to Merrill, studying her, as if she can't believe she's real.

"Thanks, Dalish," Carver says and turns back to the man, who heaves the dusty sack over his shoulder again. "Where can we find your mayor?"

The man makes a dismissive gesture towards a large house and walks away, muttering to himself.

The mayor is just as unhappy to see them as everyone else and sends them off rather hastily with a cart, two draft horses and a box full of cabbages; all for an outrageous price that has Carver gnashing his teeth. But at least they can have some hearty soup tonight if they add fresh rabbit to the stew and the Chargers have a better way of travel now.

The cart hobbles along the uneven path down towards the keep and the small road that will bring them to the Imperial Highway. It's a bumpy ride for the Chargers but it doesn't hinder the Iron Bull and his companions in nodding off. Only Krem is alert, keeping watch for movement among the hills and the trees.

Naturally, Krem is the first one to notice that someone is moving along side their company. He alerts the Iron Bull, who wakes quickly, his one eye glaring but he keeps his head nodding forward as if he's still asleep.

The path narrows and cuts a canyon through the mountain range.

"They will attack here," Cassandra says. It's the most obvious spot.

"Yes." Carver nods at his companions, making sure that they are all aware of the impending attack.

The attack is as predictable as it is effective. Two swordsmen block the path in front of them and two archers appear on top of the canyon's edges. Another archer attacks them from the back and four swordsmen come running from the same direction.

Carver and his team turn back and attack the rear, an electrical arc from Vivienne taking out the archer. The Chargers rush with surprising speed to the front while Dalish shoots at one archer with her bow with something that looks suspiciously more like a fireball than an arrow. The other archer falls to an ice attack from Merrill, before she turns back and hurries to Carver's side.

They make quick work of the swordsmen, or so Carver thinks, when out of nowhere, the fourth warrior appears right in front of him and he barely manages to raise his shield in time to hold off his attack. He stumbles back, bracing himself for the next hit and pulls at his sword stuck in the dying body of the other attacker. But the sword is stuck and he can't move backwards without letting go and the warrior rushes towards him with a throaty yell, his sword raised high, striking down in a shield shattering blow —

— with a scream that dies as sudden as it started, the warrior crumbles, armor caving in on himself as if an invisible, giant fist crushes him.

In the background, a group of riders has watched the short battle and they turn their horses around to ride off. Silence descends on the canyon. One of the swordsmen lets out a dying whimper. Light from the setting sun spills through the canyon, turning the cliff face orange. The crystal on Merrill's staff pulses softly.

Vivienne takes a few elegant steps towards Merrill and looks her up and down. "That was impressive my dear."

"Thank you!" Merrill beams at her. "It's a drain on my mana but it's very effective." She gives her staff a loving stroke and the light in the crystal dies down. "Oh look, Royal Elfroot." With the small knife from her belt, she cuts the younger leaves and puts them in her herb bag. Carver knows that little knife and he can only hope that nobody figures out anytime soon that she usually uses it to cut her own skin for bloodmagic.

Varric looks after the disappearing riders. "Should we follow them and take them out?"

"Should we?" Carver looks from Varric to Cassandra. "If it were up to Crestwood, we wouldn't even be here."

Cassandra shrugs. "We don't know who they are. They could be people from Crestwood, making sure that we've left."

"Or they even sent those bandits after us themselves." There's an uneasy feeling in Carver's gut but he's not keen on getting involved in another fight so soon. "We ride on, use the daylight until we find a sheltered place to make camp."

Krem encourages the draft-horses, who had remained utterly calm during the fight, with a loud yell and the cart hobbles forward. The path takes them along the edge of the mountain range, leaving the cliff faced canyons behind. The landscape opens up into a valley with swaying grass and wildflowers. Fennecs jump over the path in front of them and Michelle shoots three rabbits as they ride.

As Carver looks for a place to camp, he notices a building at the edge of the valley, partly hidden behind a copse of trees. "Cassandra, what is that?"

"I don't know," Cassandra says, "I'm not familiar with this area."

It takes them a long time to get to the building, the valley is larger than it looked at first. Rocks are scattered in the valley as if a giant has thrown them around for fun and they make the terrain difficult to navigate for the cart and the horses. At least the rain has stopped and as the sun sets, it bathes the valley in red light, turning the swaying grass golden.

The building, an old watchtower, turns out to be occupied. Carver had hoped for a well to fill up their waterskins, but instead is faced with a woman glaring at him and blocking the entrance. Looking past her through the gate, he can make out a bustling community of people who seem to be living here permanently. There's a pot cooking over a fire and someone prepares several carcasses for the meal. Children run around, chasing each other with sticks.

"I know you," the glaring woman says. "They call you the Herald of Andraste for what you did at Haven." She makes a pause to intensify her glare. "Do they still call you that? And will you prove it?"

"Prove what?"

"That you're the Herald of Andraste!"

He should just say it. Just say, 'I'm the Herald of Andraste', and it would make things so much easier. But it still feels like lying and the words don't want to come.

"I cannot say..." he sputters, taking a deep breath before he continues. "I cannot say what the Maker's will is and if Andraste herself gave me this mark."

"I knew it." The woman snorts angrily. "Stories of you mastering the rifts are just heresy. Imposter."

"No, that I _can_ do, I can seal rifts and prevent demons from the Fade to come through."

Now the woman studies him more intensely. "Then prove it. Show me how the rifts bend to your will, like the will of the Maker. If you wield this kind of power, then you must be sent by the Maker and his bride. Maybe it proves the chantry's arrogance, that they declared you heretic."

"Who _are_ you?" Carver asks.

"I'm Speaker Anais of the Fire of Silence. Our community is made of true believers who have denounced the Chantry and know that the Chant of Light is a lie. We are faithful to Andraste and the Maker. It was arrogance to think that mortal lips could frame the Maker's will, and so we wait in silence."

Carver looks at Cassandra for help but she only shrugs, looking just as confused as he feels. Merrill slides off the horse to join them, smiling sweetly at the scowling woman.

"The breach in the sky, what do you think it is?" Merrill asks earnestly.

Speaker Anais raises her arms to the sky. "The Maker himself has opened the sky. Soon, the chosen ones will be called up through the Breach and join him in the Golden City."

"And how?"

"What do you mean, elf?"

Merrill still smiles. "How will you get up to the Breach? Will you fly?"

"Are you..?"

Carver steps in front of the speaker, before she can wonder if Merrill's question is meant as an insult. "How do you want me to prove that rifts bend to my will?"

Casting a suspicious look to Merrill, the speaker turns her attention back to Carver. "A rift has opened in the cave, towards the back of the tower. If you can seal it, then I will believe that Andraste has given you this mark to protect us."

"In exchange I'm asking for your hospitality for my companions and me."

Speaker Anais agrees and the gate rises up for them.

* * *

The rift is easy, Carver dares to think. His experiences are not numerous enough to say that with certainty but some rifts seem to be harder than others. He doesn't know yet if it's because they got better at fighting or if some rifts spit out weaker demons than others. Having the Chargers at his side also proves to be very effective.

Icy templar power courses through his veins as he stuns a demon with _Wrath of Heaven_ , using his sword to focus. It burns up in a fireball before he can ready the next power. His sword slices through another demon rising out of the ground in front of him but the battle is under control as far as he can see. Taking a measured step towards the crystal shape of the rift, he raises his hand high, making sure that Speaker Anais and her followers see how the golden rope of light shoots from his hand, hitting the crystalline structure. He pulls at it with his mind, letting it feed off his own life force, until it cracks and collapses in on itself.

His Herald-hand burns but the warmth is welcome as it chases the iciness from his veins. He sways on his feet, the drain of the mark taking its toll. Merrill takes his marked hand and holds the cut to her lips, whispering softly to it, numbing the pain. Her other hand is on his cheek and warmth is spreading from it. Suddenly, it's easier to breathe.

The Fire of Silence people are cheering at them, calling Carver saviour and Herald of Andraste. They lead them to a secluded washhouse, offering clean towels with deep bows. The water in the basins is even warm, and through the curtain separating the washrooms, they can hear each other's happy sighs and playful splashing as they clean up.

Clean and rejuvenated, they return to a large table with steaming bowls of hearty soup.

"Your dalish friends have kindly given us three rabbits for the stew," Speaker Anais says as they finish eating. "It's not often that we see the dalish around here and rarely are they willing to share their food with us."

Merrill lays her head to the side and places the spoon next to her empty bowl. "Most dalish clans love to share food if it's a mutual arrangement."

"Our supplies here are quite limited," Anais says. "We don't have the whole land as our hunting grounds, we can't just give food away."

Dalish snorts and shoves the bowl away. "You don't say." She gets up, rattling the table with the urgency of getting away and stomps off.

Merrill watches after Dalish as she leaves the tower through the main gate, her fingers playing with the hem of her tunic.

A group of children runs around the table, waving wooden swords and staffs. "I smite you!" yells one of the sword bearers.

"You missed, now I'll throw a fireball at you," a boy with a long stick yells back.

"I'm a templar, I'm too strong for you!" The sword boy pokes the other boy with his wooden sword. "Now you die, filthy mage."

The other boy drops his stick and dramatically stumbles backwards, only to get back up shortly afterwards. "I don't wanna be a mage anymore, it's my turn to be a templar."

"No, I'm the templar, you have to be the mage."

"I don't wanna be a stupid mage anymore."

"But you have to!"

"Children," Anais scolds, "go play elsewhere."

Merril gets up quietly. "I think I'll go and see what Dalish does."

Carver watches her as she walks out of the gate, proudly holding her staff in her hand. Someone offers to refill his bowl with soup but he has lost his appetite.

Varric leans over to him. "Funny how the taste of soup varies with the company."

"Maker yes," Carver says quietly. "We'll be setting up camp far away from here."

* * *

It's getting dark by the time they find a place to set up their tents. Someone builds a fire in the middle to ward off wild animals but not many linger in its warming circle. A guard schedule is set and for once, Carver is grateful to opt out of a shift. He is exhausted.

The Chargers pile into two tents, there seems to be a ranking list who gets to sleep with the Iron Bull and judging by the noises, there are certain benefits to that position. Cassandra turns bright red upon listening to the joyful sighs and excuses herself quickly. Varric just grins and writes a few notes before he also bids him goodnight.

Carver stares into the fire, musing over the day.

Merrill comes to him on near silent feet, wrapping her arms around him and draws his back to her chest. "Vhenan, you need sleep."

Carver leans his head back, looking up to her. "It's not fair."

"What isn't fair?"

"How they treat you. How they talk about you, about dalish elves, about mages." He looks back to the fire, watching the flames lick over the wood. "I don't know how to change it all."

Merrill presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I know you will change a lot of things." Her hands stroke over his chest and she leans further down to whisper in his ear. "But now is not the time to worry about that."

"Oh." It's very hot all of a sudden under Carver's shirt.

Merrill takes his hand and waits for him to get up, smiling at him. "Come, we have a tent all to ourselves."

"Oh, yes." He scrambles to get up, almost pulling Merrill off her feet in the process.

She just laughs and wraps her arm around his waist to lead him to their tent. Suddenly she halts, staring straight ahead. "We forgot something."

"What?"

"The druffalo."

"What druffalo?" Carver wonders, his thoughts already on very different things. "Oh _that_ druffalo."

"It probably got scared and ran away when the bandits attacked us." Merrill steps towards the tent and holds the flap open for Carver to slip in. "I hope it finds a friend."

"Do we have to talk about the druffalo right now?" Carver asks sheepishly.

The way Merrill kisses him, straddles him and how her body molds to his, is answer enough to that question.


	17. Chapter 17

_I have a smutty sidefic on archiveofourown for what happens between the last chapter and this one. Too steamy for ff though, sorry._

* * *

"Thank you, this is very kind of you," Carver says for what feels like the tenth time. He takes another bite of the meat, it's seasoned with zesty herbs and dripping with delicious gravy. He's using a piece of bread to catch all the liquid and moans quietly when the taste of fresh bread and gravy combines in his mouth.

Merrill giggles, but she watches him and tries to copy his method. Gravy drips from her chin and Carver reaches over the table to catch it with his bread. He grins at her as he eats his piece, his heart stumbling when she smiles back.

The woman of the house, Kelnea, looks between them, her mouth opening as she seems to work out a question.

"This is excellent, thank you," Carver says again to stop her from thinking about Merrill being an elf.

Kelnea smiles reverently at him, her question forgotten, and strokes over the red striped tablecloth, ironing out non-existent wrinkles with her hands.

"It's the least we can do for the Herald of Andraste," her husband says, his chest puffed out like a proud mabari. A few children run around, a very brave one sitting on The Iron Bull's lap. The house looks well kept and the fields they rode along on their way here are rife with crops. After the abandoned farms of the coast, the area around Kinloch finally looks like the healthy farmland Carver remembers from his youth. The feast in front of him speaks to the well being of the land here.

Vivenne daps at her mouth with a blinding white handkerchief that came from who knows where in her impeccable robes and rises with a polite dip of her head. "Thank you for this excellent meal, if you would excuse me now." Her chair scrapes over the stone floor and she leaves through the light curtain that keeps the insects out but lets fresh air into the house.

Kelnea looks after her with a frown. "That lady, she's a mage?"

"Lady Vivienne is the First Enchanter of the Circle of Val Royeaux," Cassandra says with a voice that forbids any criticism.

Kelnea looks at her husband. "When the rebellion began, we had quite a few mages from Kinloch Hold coming through here."

Her husband, Erkton, nods. "They were not like that lady though."

Merrill picks up her plate and Vivienne's and carries it over to the sink, where a tall person, with their back turned to them, helps with the dishes. "How where they different?" Merrill's voice is perfectly friendly but Carver can hear a sharp edge underneath her question.

Erkton shrugs. "They were very pale, like they'd never seen the sun. And they didn't know anything."

Kelnea nods. "Didn't know where to go, didn't know how to feed themselves."

"I showed them a map and they didn't know where they were."

"One young woman told me that they hadn't slept for three nights," Kelnea says, "cause they were afraid of the noises."

Merrill clears another stack of plates from the table and the Chargers file out of the house with grunted thanks. Children run out after them. They can hear shrieks when The Iron Bull picks two of them up and swings them around.

"You're dalish, aren't you?" Kelnea asks Merrill.

"Yes, I am."

"And you're helping the Inquisition," Kelnea says, "and you're even helping now. I never knew of a dalish helping anyone."

"You mustn't have met many dalish then," Merrill says, handing the plates to the helper at the sink. "Did you help the mages?"

"Well yes," Erkton says, "I didn't want our house to burn down, you know?"

"Did they threaten you with that?" Carver asks.

Erkton exchanges another look with his wife before he continues. "They didn't like _say_ it but you know, they're mages, right? A flick of the fingers and whoosh — " he throws his hands up. "You never know what happens if you get one angry, you know?"

Carver swallows whatever remark threatens to come out and looks between Cassandra and Merrill. Cassandra keeps her expression perfectly neutral, not betraying any of her thoughts and Merrill just smiles, unperturbed.

"It's probably different if a mage is a First Enchanter like your Lady Vivienne," Kelnea says with an apologetic smile.

"And after you helped them, the mages left?" Merrill asks.

"Yes," Erkton says with a nod. "Were afraid of the templars from Kinloch Hold coming after them."

"And what about the tranquil?"

Everyone stares at Merrill.

Cassandra stands up. "What tranquil?"

Merrill turns to the quiet figure at the sink. "What is your name?"

The man turns around, the burned sun on his forehead catching the light. "My name is Senner."

"You keep a tranquil here?" Cassandra asks, glaring at Erkton and Kelnea.

"He works," Erkton says defensively. "He has his own room and we got him new clothes and all."

"You can't just— "

"Senner?" Merrill interrupts. "Do you like it here?"

The man turns his impassive face towards Merrill and nods. "I am treated well. My bed is comfortable. I'm not a prisoner, I could leave but I feel safe here."

"Why didn't you stay with the other mages from Kinloch Hold?" Carver asks. He shudders when those eyes turn to him. It's always like being watched by a dead man.

"Mages are uncomfortable around tranquil. And I cannot defend myself should we run into templars. They didn't want to keep me around."

Merrill lays her head to the side. "That's what they said?"

"Yes."

Merrill nods and turns to Kelnea and Erkton with a frown. "You will not mistreat him."

Both nod eagerly.

Memories rise in Carver, unbidden.

 _A girl with dark hair, her smile gone forever, follows the templar. She almost looks like Bethany. The templar gloats, "Takes everything without complaint, that thing." His sneer is vicious and Carver has to turn away. Bile rises in his throat. When will it stop? Who will be next? Some child breaking an unknown rule? Bethany? Marian?_

Carver stands up and leans over the table, clenching his fists to hide how his hands are shaking. "If I hear a word that you abuse this man in any way, the Inquisition will come for you."

"Of course," Erkton says, nodding even harder.

"We would never..." Kelnea smoothes invisible wrinkles in the tablecloth again.

"He does good work and it's not like he can set the house on fire, right?" Erkton says with a wide grin.

Carver cringes and silently counts to ten. "Thank you for the wonderful meal. We'll set up camp over at the edge of the forest and will be on our way again tomorrow morning."

"It's been an honour, Herald." Erkton bows and reaches for his Herald hand as if he expects to kiss it, a move that has Carver hide his hands behind his back.

Outside, the Chargers are still entertaining the children, while Vivienne stands regally at the side. Carver goes to her, almost tripping over a child with a wooden sword running after Krem.

"Did you know that the man at the sink is tranquil?"

"Yes," Vivienne says without hesitation. "There is a certain aura around them that sets them apart."

"Did he make you uncomfortable?"

Vivienne lets out a long sigh before she answers. "Yes, I must admit, tranquil are unsettling. A reminder of what could happen to us."

"Yes, terrible." The faces of mages with the chantry sun burned into their foreheads come to his mind unbidden, one by one. So many.

"A terrible last resort but necessary," Vivienne says calmly.

Carver stares at her. "What? You can't possibly mean that."

She fixes him with cold eyes. "Don't be naive, Herald. It is a method, necessary to protect people."

"Oh, is that it?" He sees Merrill come out of the house, watching the children play. The very thought of her with the chantry sun on her forehead, draws a tight knot in his stomach. "Maybe in fancy Val Royeaux it was a nice little 'method' but in Kirkwall — "

"I know that Kirkwall was —"

"No you don't, you don't know anything about Kirkwall. Hundreds of mages were made tranquil and very few of them were actually dangerous, they were made tranquil as punishment because they were too defiant. Or some sick templar wanted a special toy."

For a moment, Vivienne's perfect poise crumbles and her face turns ashen. "I understand that your own sister was under your care as a templar."

"Bethany, yes. And luckily Meredith never dared to bring in Marian. I could protect Bethany because her very nature is kindness, but Marian? She would have never stayed locked up in her cell for weeks on end without causing some explosion."

"For weeks?"

Carver turns to her and lowers his voice. "Yes, weeks. Because that's what happens in a Circle, just like with the mages from Kinloch Hold. Looked like they've never seen the sun? Probably true. I don't know what cushy Circle you lived in but it's not what most mages experience."

"A reform of the Circles may be necessary, to prevent abuse like that but we need the Circles to protect people and protect mages from themselves."

"No, there must be another way."

"Your view is just as biased as is mine. You have lived with apostates all your life and think this is easy, but what about a young girl that has a nightmare and sets the house on fire?"

"So you take her away from her home, her family, and lock her up in a tower for the rest of her life?"

"Where she will learn to control her magic."

Carver wants to laugh. He has heard this lie so many times. "Will she? How? Who will teach her? You were First Enchanter, what did you teach the young mages?"

"I..."

"Did you tell them of the demons they'll meet in the Harrowing? What it even is?"

Vivienne narrows her eyes. "That's beside the point. Surely you must see that a mage can be just as deadly as a chevalier but a mages' powers are invisible. We have to have ways to protect innocent people against mages without control or ill intend."

"And has anybody, anybody in the last, oh 800 years, thought of a different way how to do that? Besides locking mages into cells and making them tranquil when they get too annoying?" Carver can't breathe enough to fill his chest. "Because that's the reality of the Circles, I saw it, I lived it. I don't know how your pretty Circle worked but I was in Kirkwall, where mages were locked up until... until— "

There's not enough air to breathe and dark shadows dance at the edge of his vision. His knees feel soft and his hand grabs into empty air, trying to find something to steady himself.

"Herald," Vivienne calls out and catches him before he falls down.

In a moment, Merrill is at his side, gently guiding him to a bench next to a patch of elfroot. "Vehnan, it's alright, I'm here."

Carver leans against her as the air in his chest slowly expands. He can breathe again.

"What happened?" Merrill's voice is soft but the look she gives Vivienne would have shaken a weaker person.

"I'm afraid I have agitated the Herald over my opinion of the Circles." Vivienne has stepped back, holding herself very straight.

"The Circles?" Cassandra asks as she comes to them. She looks critically at Carver. "That's hardly a new discussion."

"No," Carver says with a sigh, "it isn't. I don't know why... with the tranquil..."

Cassandra crouches down to look into Carver's face. "When was the last time you took your lyrium?"

"Yesterday? No, the day before. But that's not it, well, not all of it."

Merrill strokes gently over his arm, waiting for him to say more.

"Herald," Cassandra starts but Carver interrupts her.

"We've seen mages in the country but what happened to all the tranquil? Were they all killed? What about mage children? Are they starving somewhere, unable to take care of themselves?" Carver leans back, gazing up into the sky. Clouds rush far above, telling of an ebbing storm. "And all this fear, mages burning houses down and all that, how are we going to change that?"

He turns to Merrill, putting his hand on hers. "The way they all speak to you — "

"Don't worry about it," Merrill says. "Most people aren't mean, they're just a bit stupid."

Cassandra clears her throat, still kneeling on one knee. "We can't fix everything at once. This is something we have to work on step by step."

"I apologize for my contrarian argument," Vivienne says.

"It's a discussion we have to have," Carver says with a shrug.

Cassandra stands up and turns to Vivienne with a grunt. "But not right now."

"I agree." Vivienne gives Carver a small bow with her head. "I am willing and eager to adjust my position and develop solutions for the mage problem with you, Herald. But I would suggest we do it over a cup of tea in Haven."

"Currently, it's much more important that you don't extend your lyrium withdrawals," Cassandra says, turning back to him. "Why have you not taken it?"

Carver sighs and flexes his Herald hand, willing the green light to rise up. If he focuses, he can even make it spin. "The mark starts to hiss and it hurts when I take the lyrium. And it feels like it's less powerful."

Vivienne watches the small spiral in his hand with interest. "That is concerning. We rely on the mark working even more than on your templar powers working."

Varric strolls over to them, having watched, and probably listened from the other side of the elfroot patch. "Excuse a dumb dwarf question, but maybe the mark would like pure lyrium better, like a mage potion?"

Vivienne shakes her head. "No, templars cannot take mage lyrium, it's poisonous."

"Says who?"

"The chantry."

Varric looks up to Vivienne with a smirk. "No offense, Lady Vivienne, but in our corner of the world, the chantry isn't exactly known for its forthrightness and honesty."

"Mage lyrium amplifies magic powers, it's useless for templars because they have no magic," Vivienne says with conviction.

"Then what are templar powers, if not some kind of magic?" Everyone looks at Merrill, who smiles as if she didn't just question everything that the world is built upon.

"It's different because it's not inherent," Vivienne says, her expression tightly controlled. "Templars are not born with their powers and they don't come into them one day. They only get them through the doses of templar lyrium."

Merrill walks over to Vivienne and holds out her hand. "Make a flame in your hand, please."

Vivienne hesitates, her eyebrows raised, but then she builds a beautiful colored flame of red and blue in her hand, spinning in a small column. Two children laugh in delight as they watch and carefully step closer to them.

Merrill raises her hand towards the flame, twists her fingers and whispers a strange word.

Vivienne gasps, her eyes going wide and the flame disappears. She heaves in a breath of air, staring at Merrill, to her hand and back. She says a spell and then another, gripping her staff tight and only on the fourth try, a spark appears on her hand and the red and blue flame builds up again.

"What was that?" Cassandra asks sharply.

Merrill lowers her hand and smiles to her. "It's called Suinanen, I believe it's similar to the Silencing that templars can do."

Color has returned to Vivienne's face and if she is disturbed by Merrill's spell, she hides it well. "Impressive."

"You see? Spells against magic are not unique to templars."

Vivienne shakes out her hand. "That doesn't prove that templar powers are magic, my dear."

"I know. But it's something to think about, isn't it?"

"I agree." Vivienne inclines her head and then turns to Carver. "Regardless, you cannot go into withdrawal out here, on our way to Redcliffe. If we're meant to meet Enchanter Fiona and the rebel mages there, you need to be alert. These people are potentially dangerous, my personal dislike of Fiona aside, we do not know what they plan to achieve with this meeting."

"I know, I know." Carver leans forward, the hunger biting in his chest. "Give me a bit. I'd just like to take it somewhere away from the others. Get everyone ready in the meantime and start moving. I'll catch up with you."

"You should not go alone," Cassandra calls out.

"I go with him," Merrill says.

"We'll stay close by." He gets up, gathers his gauntlets, sword and shield and walks over to Merrill, who waits for him at the fence. "Give my thanks to the family here," he says to Cassandra and then hurries up a small hill towards a copse of bushes and trees. He doesn't want to go far, he just needs a place where not ten or more people are watching him all the time.

Merrill follows him quietly, picking herbs and flowers along the way. When he finds himself sufficiently hidden among the trees, he leans against one and takes a deep breath. Merrill looks at him curiously.

"I've never seen you take your lyrium before."

"No, I always took it first thing in the morning and we never saw each other before noon."

"If at all," Merrill says quietly.

"Yes." Carver thinks back how he had to hide away on patrol to steal a few minutes with Merrill. Or how he had to beg and plead to be able to leave Kirkwall for some bogus reason, most involving a hair brained scheme with his sister, to meet Merrill in the mountains. "We don't have to hide anymore. But now you'll also get the questionable joy of seeing me at my worst."

"How worse is worst?"

Carver takes the vial out from his bag and holds it into the light. "I have learned that I turn into an overconfident arsehole right after taking this, who endangers his friends by thinking we're all invincible."

Merrill lays her head to the side and looks at him as if he's an interesting specimen of a new herb she found. "Maybe you need to work off some energy after taking it? I can zap you."

"We can try sparring."

Merrill grins and readys her staff. "Let's do it."

Carver unstoppers the vial and pours it into his mouth. He swallows, feeling it go down his throat like ice. The drone in his ears rises to deafening loudness and blocks out the world before reality slams into focus again. For a moment everything is too loud, too bright as the ice flows through his veins. His Herald hand pulses, the green light hissing and spitting painfully. He gulps in a breath and the familiar templar strength fills him like light.

"Do you feel alright?" Merrill asks, her staff dancing lightly in her hand.

Carver laughs. "Never better. Do you think you can take me on?"

For an answer, Merrill throws an ice spell towards him that he deflects with his shield. He counters with a Spell Purge but she steps out of the way, drawing a barrier around herself. As she prepares another spell, Carver summons a small Wrath Of Heaven pillar, not putting his whole strength in. Still, when it breaks through Merrill's barrier, she shrieks, just barely jumping out of the way and stumbles.

Carver dispels the attack and runs towards her. She leans against a tree, panting but smiling at him. "You're very strong, Carver Hawke."

Carver puts his hands on the tree on either side of her, trapping her in. "I feel like I'm strong enough to lift the whole world."

She smiles at him, her hand coming to his face to caress his cheek.

"I know it's just the lyrium," Carver says, leaning forward to nuzzle into Merrill's neck, "but it feels so good." He breathes in her scent and groans. "Fuck, I think we have to add horniness to the list."

He kisses her neck, pressing forward, when suddenly an invisible fist punches him in the stomach and catapults him away. He crashes onto the ground, the force spell pulsing through his body. "Ouch." He looks up to Merrill. "Alright, I think I deserved that."

Merrill smirks at him. "Yes, you did." The smile falls from her face. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He peels himself off the ground, brushing grass and moss from his behind. "Naw, I'm fine. I still feel like I could fight a dragon but the initial rush has worn off now."

Merril steps over to him on light feet, her staff softly glowing. "That was fun!"

"Yeah, I bet," Carver says and grins.

They take an easier path down, the trees thinning out and giving way to a wide view over the shallow landscape of the Hinterlands. Merrill stops and looks. "I'm glad the snow is gone. Our old songs describe these lands as seas of green on the edge of sweet water."

"These were elven lands?"

Merrill nods. "Our ancestors were everywhere."

Carver doesn't know what to say to that.

"Is this where you grew up?" Merrill asks, looking towards the horizon.

"Not quite. We have to go further south along the Imperial Highway, down towards where Lake Calenhad feeds a smaller lake. I forgot what the name of the lake was but there is a castle there, Danor Castle."

"Oh, how nice. Do you want to stay at the castle?"

Carver jumps down a boulder, struggling to stay upright when the rubble under his feet turns into a miniatur avalanche. "The castle was overrun during the Blight. When we left Lothering, it was filled with darkspawn."

"Do you think the darkspawn are still there?"

Carver waits for Merrill, who has suddenly decided to climb a tree to reach a colorful blossoms on a vine.

"They say the land around Lothering is forever poisoned by the Blight. It's possible that that makes it comfortable for darkspawn."

Merril jumps down from the tree and shows the blossom to him. It's twice as big as her hand and smells sickly sweet.

Carver wrinkles his nose. "What is that for?"

"It's Nightsong, I can make an extract from it that helps with sleeping."

Merrill wraps the blossom carefully in a cloth before she puts it in her herb bag. "What does blight poisoned land look like?"

"Dead. I remember that all the plants were dead overnight. Everything in our garden looked like it had dried up weeks ago, when it had been fine the day before."

Two days and several closed rifts later, they reach the swampy area near Danor Castle. Carver is shocked to see that the blight poisoning looks even worse than in his memory. The fertile green land ends abruptly, the ground looking like black ash. Whatever had been left of the dying vegetation is long gone, leaving the soil without protection. The air is filled with dust, the last remains of the topsoil being blown away by the wind.

They have to tie scarves over their faces to be able to breathe. Merrill pulls her hood up and blinks against the wind. "Soon only rocks will be left here."

Carver looks around, searching for familiar landmarks. When they left, fleeing from the darkspawn, the land looked like a severe drought had hit it. But now it is a dark grey desert and soon it won't even be that anymore.

"Hey Junior," Varris says, his voice muffled by his shawl. "Is your old house close by?"

Carver shakes his head. "No, further out there." He stares for a moment towards the sinking sun, where Lothering used to be. "But I don't want to look for it anyway." He doesn't need to see the house that his father had built and kept in shape with his and Marian's help, now fallen to ruin. He doesn't need to see the dead soil where the garden used to be.

Wrinkling his nose against the foul smell, he turns back to the shallow creek that feeds the lake in front of Danor Castle. The black mud at the edges clings to the hoofs of the horses. "There's a ford somewhere around here where we can cross with the wagon."

The horses are nervous, scurrying, trying to get away from the sticky mud. Cassandra's horse begins to buck but she leans forward and murmurs something as she pats its neck, calming the animal down. She looks around with a deep frown. "The land unsettles thee horses. They feel the Blight."

"Let's hurry. It should get better closer to Redcliffe." Carver spurs his horse on. It's just as eager to get away from the dead land as he is, but the wagon sets the pace, driving as fast as possible on the broken roads. Strange sounds reach them, growling and moaning and occasionally a bone chilling scream.

"Darkspawn," Varric calls out, holding on for dear life as the wagon rumbles over mud and rubble. "I'd know that noise from anywhere."

Carver feels the hairs on his neck stand up, there is a rift somewhere nearby and for the first time he's thinking of ignoring it to get out of these blight infested lands quickly. Merrill rides up to him, green eyes peeking out of her hood and scarf, watching him.

"What is it, Vhenan?" she asks.

How she knows of his foreboding, he has no idea. "I can feel a rift nearby. I'd rather not spend too much time here."

"It's getting green again over there. And the smell has gotten better."

Carver squints in the dimming evening light, there is indeed the edge of the blight poison visible not far from their current position. It's like a cut from a sword through the country, separating black and green. Bushes and shrubs fight the devastation, growing against the black silhouettes of dead trees. The rift is on the green side, as if even fade rifts avoid the blight poison. As they get closer, the horses hurrying towards the healthy nature ahead, he can make out people at the rift, fighting demons. He urges his horse forward and rushes towards the rift in full gallop.

Fireballs and ice spells blast over the battlefield, with the twisting green crystal in the middle. Giant terrors on spindly legs jump from the ground with every twitch of the rift crystal, slashing at the mages fighting them. Carver jumps from his horse, Cassandra, Michelle and Lupas close behind him. From the corner of his eye he sees Merrill and Vivienne taking up positions on the side. Varric gives him a nod and takes a place close to Merrill. As the three start their attacks, Carver and Cassandra rush towards the crystal.

With the Chargers adding to their superior numbers, the demons fall quickly. Carver throws the rope of light from his Herald hand towards the cracking crystal, focussing its energy until it explodes. His last templar dose was this morning. He may not have enough lyrium in his veins for a full Wrath of Heaven right now but he prefers that the sting in his Herald hand is more bearable now.

The mages, four of them, stand together over the body of a fallen mage, saying a short prayer. Then they grab their staves tightly and walk over to Carver, eyeing the assortment of people around him carefully.

"We thank you for your help, it was unexpected but most welcome," a tall man in tattered robes says. He looks at the symbol on their armor and his eyes narrow. "You are of the Inquisition and with your hand..." He lowers his staff and looks at the green light still flickering in Carver's hand.

"Oh, I know who he is," a voice with a vicious snarl comes from the side. A mage strides towards Carver, his staff pointing at him, blue light crackling around it. He pokes the tip of the staff under Carver's chin, at the same time Cassandra has her sword at the mage's throat and Varric aims his crossbow at him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Varric says calmly.

"Drop your staves, all of you," Cassandra orders.

The other mages, seeing that they're outnumbered by an impressive assortment of weapons pointing at them, drop their staves and raise their hands. "Give it up," one of the mages says to the attacker.

The man grips his staff tighter. With a flip of his head, he throws the hood off his head. "Do you remember me?"

Carver motions to Cassandra to stand back, which she does reluctantly. He ignores the tip of the staff pointing at his throat. Over the shoulder of the mage, he sees Merrill holding a spell ready in her hands. He shakes his head a little, so that she waits and takes a closer look at the attacker. The mage has a scruffy beard and long, unkempt hair but he looks vaguely familiar. "I'm not sure."

"But I am sure," the man snarls and turns to the other mages. "He's from Kirkwall, a templar!" He looks back to Carver, hate in his eyes. "He is one of _them._ "


	18. Chapter 18

"A Kirkwall templar. A rabid wolf from the Gallows." The mage's voice is dripping with so much hate, Carver recoils from it.

He doesn't remember the mage's name. How could he? There were nearly three hundred mages in the Gallows and most of them locked up in their chambers for days or years. How he wishes for Bethany to be here, she'd know what to say and how to turn this situation around.

"Yes, he is a templar from Kirkwall," Merrill calls out, her hands glowing in blue light. "And if you don't take your staff away from his throat, I'll freeze your hands until they splinter into tiny pieces."

The man stares at her hands, her magic a visible light. "You're a mage."

"Yes."

The mage takes another look at Merrill's hands and lowers his staff.

"Drop it," Cassandra says.

The staff clatters to the ground, joining the other staves in a pile of gnarly wood and glittering gems. The mage shakes his head. "Why do you defend a templar?"

Merrill comes to Carver's side, her shoulder bumping into his arm. "You don't know him."

A voice from the back draws their attention. "No, it can't be." A mage with darker skin steps forward, removing his hood. "I know you, you're Carver. Carver Hawke." He turns to the other mages. "Bethany's brother, remember?"

"Cullen's friend you mean," the aggressive mage growls.

The mage ignores the remark and turns back to Carver. "I'm Alain. We... We've met a few times."

Recognition dawns in Carver. "At The Wounded Coast, yes, I remember. You were with Grace when they kidnapped Fenris to blackmail Hawke."

"I regret to have been part of that," Alain says.

Varric lets out a grunt. "You're so lucky to be alive. You have no idea how angry Hawke was, you can't even imagine how close you were to flying away as flecks of ash in the wind."

Alain nods towards Carver. "You and your sister convinced Cullen to be merciful, I wasn't made tranquil, for that I'll be forever grateful."

Carver wipes his hair out of his eyes. Time has left its mark on all of them, the mages have longer hair than the Circle permitted, just like him, and the sun has worked against their Gallow-paleness. But their faces look gaunt, not helped by the deep shadows under their eyes. "How long have you been..."

"On the run? Wouldn't you know?"

Alian turns to the angry mage and snaps his fingers. A spark jumps from his hand to the other's chest. "Stop it, Mar. We don't need more problems."

Mar scowls, his hands clenching with a menacing light dancing around them. "Oh, we're kissing up to templars now?"

"We're not templars anymore," Carver says, keeping his voice calm. He watches the mage and the magic he holds in his hands out of the corner of his eye but he keeps his focus on Alian. "We are the Inquisition, we offer a home and protection to anybody who is willing to fight with us." He almost put an 'in the name of Andraste' after the statement. Leliana would have been so proud.

Mar opens his mouth again but snaps it closed when Alian threatens him with another spark between his fingers. Alian turns back to Carver and his entourage. "You have mages fighting with you."

"Yes, this is Merrill, and over there is First Enchanter Vivienne." Carver puts his hand on Merrill's shoulder and points towards Vivienne. He also glances over to Dalish with her strange bow. Dalish takes a step back, out of Carver's line of sight and he leaves it at that. "And more mages have joined us at our base in Haven."

Alian bows respectfully towards Vivienne and gives a slanted smile to Merrill. There is a pause, where the mages look from one to the other. "Free mages, travelling and fighting with you." It's not quite a question, more a surprised statement but Carver nods anyway.

"Yes, and we're currently heading to Redcliffe to meet with Enchanter Fiona of the Rebel Mages to offer an alliance. We have no intention of forcing anyone to join us." He gives the angry mage Mar a firm look. "But we would appreciate your support."

The mages take a few steps away to discuss the option while the assorted horde of Inquisition fighters finds a place further away from the sharp border of blighted earth to take a rest. The horses, having shown exceptional resilience against the poison of the blighted grounds, have earned a rest just like everyone else. Carver takes two apples from his pack and goes to the animals to feed them.

They take the apples gently from his hands, crunching them up quickly and rubbing their noses against him to ask for more. Carver strokes their heads instead. These are good horses, they pulled the cart all along the Imperial Highway with rifts, demons, bandits and through blighted earth without ever straying from the road.

Lupas and Merrill come to him with rags in their hands and begin to rub soft circles on the horses' backs. "The horses got sweaty," Lupas says. "They'll get sick in the wind if we don't wipe them off."

"We did that with our halla too," Merrill says.

Carver tosses his hair back again and takes a rag from Merrill to rub the horse dry. It's good work, simple and calming, and he can let his mind wander. Bethany loved horses and when they helped at the milk farm, back when Lothering was still bright and green, the owner let them take the draft horse out for a ride sometimes. It had no saddle, just the collar for the cart, and they both held on for dear life when the horse started running, shaking like a boat in a storm.

The worry about Bethany and Marian bites deep in his chest, here, so close to where they used to grow up. Varric hasn't received any new letters from them. They could be anywhere and he doesn't want to think of the worst cases. In his wishful imagination, they are taking a stroll through the sunny hills of the Dales.

He had not expected to find mages from Kirkwall this far down in Ferelden but maybe he should have? The king of Ferelden is known to think favourably of mages and apart from Tevinter, Ferelden is probably the safest place for mages to seek refuge in.

Alain comes over to them and Carver hands the rag back to Merrill. "Have you come to a decision?"

"For the moment, yes," Alain says. "We will accompany you to Redcliffe, fight at your side if needed but we are not your subjects, you will not conscript us in the name of Andraste."

"That would never be my intention."

"You are the Herald of Andraste, are you not?"

Carver holds up his Herald-hand and shows Alain the mark. "I didn't give that name to myself, I just happen to have this mark that can close the rifts." He looks up to him. "I don't need a following of mindless servants. I need an army of mages, templars and common soldiers. All I want is to close the Breach and keep the Fade away from our world."

Alain still looks sceptical but studies the flickering light in Carver's palm with interest. "Once we've spoken to the mages in Redcliffe, each of us will decide if we want to join you or not."

Carver nods. "Sounds good to me."

"Now if you'll excuse me, we want to hold a small funeral for our friend." Alain bows his head and turns away.

"Of course," Carver says. He watches as the mages gather around their fallen friend. There had been mage funerals in the Gallows, death comes to mages with age just the same or sometimes through terrible mistreatments. But he has never seen mages holding a ritual of their own, the templars performed the funeral rites in the Gallows, with a chantry sister praying to Andraste. Afterwards, a cart took the covered body to the far end of the island, where the body was burned and the ashes left for the wind to scatter them.

Here, the mages each place something on the body, a flower, a letter, a piece of bark. Then they kneel in a circle and touch the body with one hand. Slowly, in a profoundly natural way, the body dissolves into ashes with hardly a flame visible.

Carver turns back before the mages see that he watched them. Merrill smiles at him as she scratches the horse behind its ears. "Some dalish clans also burn the body, on a bright fire and then they collect the ashes," she says, "but we buried the body with a cedar branch to guide Dilarthem's ravens."

"Such fascinating rituals." Alain has heard her words as he returns. "I never knew how apostates lived but now that I am one, I find that one thing we lack is traditions. Did mages ever collect the ashes? We don't know. For now, it feels safest just to leave them, not linger too long."

"I'm sorry," Merrill says. "As dalish, we really don't know either. Traditions can only stay alive if someone makes sure they're not forgotten."

"Are you a scholar from the dalish?" Alain asks.

Merrill puts the rags into a bag and wipes her hands on her pants. "Maybe? I like books."

"To learn and study books and to write down legends, I loved that," Alain says with dreamy eyes. "I loved reading about history that has been forgotten and seeing where things come from. Of course, the chantry libraries were limited but we had a few controversial books we could read. At least before Meredith restricted access to the library."

Merrill smiles at him. "I try to find evidence of our history, of old elvhen legends. I even found elvhen books."

"That is fascinating. Were you able to save them?"

Merrill nods and pulls Alain to her pack under Carver's watchful eye. From what he knows of the mage, he seems to be an earnest and honest person but who knows how a Circle mage reacts to books that could negate chantry teachings.

But Alain handles the book that Merrill gives him with utmost care, making sure to touch it as little as possible, even putting on gloves to turn the pages. Merrill has her own gloves and shows him her translations with a smile.

Cassandra comes up to Carver as he watches them pouring over the texts. "We should move further away from the blighted grounds to make camp."

Carver nods. "I agree, if we move for a few more hours, we might even meet our troops from Haven."

* * *

The road to Redcliffe is littered with rifts and suspiciously empty of any other traffic. Their progress is slowed by the near constant fighting but the new mages prove to be valuable assets to their impromptu army. Carver feels reassured in his decision to insist that mages join them in their fight, nobody deals quite as efficiently with fiery demons pouring from rifts like six mages working together.

Another demon splinters into thousands of icy pieces as Carver focuses the Herald-mark on the rift. The mark is powerful, pulling the rift closed with little effort but he can feel the lack of lyrium in his veins. He has done a lot of fighting since his last templar draught and weakness begins to creep up in him.

The noise of the battle dies down and he leans forward, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Someone touches his back and he flinches, the pressure on his back feeling like a burn.

"You are not well." The mage looks him in the eyes and shakes her head. "And it will get worse. I give you another day before the tremors start."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a healer, as much as I was allowed in the Gallows." She bows her head in a respectful gesture. "My name is Keanah, originally from the Circle of Starkhaven, like Alain. I have treated templars back in Starkhaven, some of them on the last path of the addiction."

"What happens on that last path?"

Keanah shakes her head. "It's a crime that they don't tell you young recruits. How the templar draught will eat your mind away over time, how it will make you feel invincible but keep you addicted and destroy you in the end."

Dread pools in Carver's stomach. "Do you know of a cure?"

"You can try to wean yourself off it but the withdrawal symptoms are brutal. Templars have died because of them." Keanah steps closer and lowers her voice. "All the templars that left the Circles are going into withdrawals right about now. The Chantry doesn't give out the draught anymore and what reserves they took with them are used up by now."

"And then somebody offers them Red Lyrium."

"It changes them." Keanah looks over to her friends. "There were nine of us from Kirkwall, originally. At first we came across templars who were lacking guidance and just tried to do what they always did, catch mages. But then we began to meet different templars... mad, angry, viciously fighting without care for their own well being."

"Their eyes were red?"

Keanah turns to him. "Yes."

"We came across those too."

"We lost our youngest mages to them. They were just... there were kids, barely knew any defensive magic."

"I'm sorry."

Keanah shakes her head. "So much hate, so much death."

"Have... I don't know if you know my sister..."

"Bethany, I knew her, yes. Is she safe?"

"I know she left Kirkwall with my older sister but I haven't heard from her in a while."

"If you wonder if we heard about your sisters from other mages — I'm sorry, but we avoid others, other mages. Some of them are— " Keanah frowns at him. "We just want to live. We don't want to fight in a war."

"I understand." Carver sighs, wiping his hair back again. "When you left Kirkwall," he wonders, "did you see any tranquil leaving the city?"

"Tranquil?" Keanah looks at her hands with a shrug. "I think there were two on the boat with us but I don't know for sure. I think I saw some at the docks."

"I know there were more than eighty tranquil in the Gallows," Carver says, "and in the weeks of chaos, they just disappeared. I must admit, I never stopped to think what happened to them."

"We never saw one here in Ferelden. They have no way of defending themselves and the templars..."

"Yeah..." He doesn't need to hear how that sentence ends. Nobody cares for tranquil. Least of all angry templars.

He has to admit that their bland faces always creeped him out and despite them being reliable workers, her never liked working with any of them. They were efficient but the lack of emotions made them seem like machinery. As if they were not really people with free will, just ghosts wearing the face of someone long dead.

When the mages fled the Gallows on boats and rafts, nobody looked for the tranquil. Carver remembers how they silently walked through the empty halls of the Circle, still doing their work for the remaining templars and mages, until one day they were all gone.

After that day, the templars had to cook for themselves, which was probably one of the reasons why so many of them deserted.

"Still, you should take your templar draught," Keanah says, "if you still have any and your other templars too. I can't do anything for you, I don't even have supplies."

"We could use more healers in Haven."

"I know how it is to be a mage healer among templars, it's not something I'd like to repeat."

"We're not templars anymore," Carver says, "I will make sure that you won't be in danger. It's not — " he sighs and looks Keanah in the eyes, "- it's not perfect and sometimes someone might say stupid shit but we're trying to be different. We are the Inquisition, not the Chantry."

"I'll think about it," Keanah says with a respectful nod but she still looks sceptical as she turns away.

Carver tosses his hair back and looks over to Merrill, still hunched over a book and her notes. She gestures with her hands as she speaks, like she always does when she is excited and something pinches in his mind. He never really asked Merrill about her studies. Merrill and her stories, Merrill and her weird mirror, these things had always just been something that happened on the side. A deep sigh leaves his chest as he wonders what else he has ignored in his life so far.

"Something troubling you, your Worship?"

Carver looks up to see Cassandra standing next to him in respectful distance. " _Your Worship_? Really? I thought we were done with that."

Cassandra hides her face by looking towards the horizon. "A slip of my tongue."

"Never would have thought you'd do those."

She turns back to him, a slight grin playing on her lips. "I guess I am still quite impressed with you. You truly believe in changing our world."

Carver snorts. "It's more a wild hope than a true belief but yeah — things are changing whether we like it or not. Might as well try to do something good."

"But there's something else," Cassandra says, now serious. "Is it the lyrium?"

"Yes." Carver takes the vial from his pocket and holds it up to the light. "With all the rifts and the fighting today, I seem to have used up what I had in my blood."

"And yet you hesitate to take it."

Carver shows her the palm of his Herald-hand, willing the green light to spill out in a glowing ball. "The mark is so much better like this. Less painful, more powerful." He closes his fist and lets the green glow shrink until it just glows softly through the gaps between his fingers.

"We cannot afford to have you weakend, not with demons and rogue mages or templars around us."

Carver looks at the blue glowing vial again and closes his hand around it. "We also can't afford the mark to be weak or uncontrollable."

"Herald... Carver please, take your draught now," Cassandra pleads. "After Redcliffe, once we're back in Haven, I promise we'll work on a solution. The Seekers have knowledge about templars and lyrium that has not been shared with people outside of our order."

"Your order is just as shattered as the templar order," Carver says.

"I will find something, I promise. Take your draught now, I can spar with you if you need to work off some energy."

"I'd rather be alone, if you don't mind." He glances over to where Merrill sits on the ground, still talking to Alain over the elvhen book. He doesn't want to take her away from that.

He takes a narrow path towards the shrubbery, away from the rowdy noise of the temporary camp. A small clearing gives him enough privacy to swallow the draught and he uses the familiar surge of power and confidence to practice his sword fighting sequences. It wasn't the templars that taught him these, it had been his father. His father, the mage, had a surprisingly accurate knowledge of swords and shields and how to use them.

Counting his steps, he slashes the air, turns and squares his shoulders. _Your shoulders hold your strength, my boy, always hold your shield up and your shoulders square._ He hears the voice of his father in his head as if he stands next to him again, watching him, encouraging him.

A sob rubs raw in the back of his throat and he swallows hard against it. He hasn't thought of these times with his fathers in years. Here, so close to his old home, now on dead and blackened earth, it feels like he could almost be here with him.

Soft steps approach him and he whips around to see Merrill approach.

"Carver?" She comes up to him and puts her hand on his cheek.

"I'm alright, just... nothing." He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her hand on his face.

"You shouldn't do this alone," Merrill says and Carver opens his eyes to see her scowling at him.

"What do you mean? Taking the draught?" The mark on his hand bursts open, hissing erratically and he has to loosen his grip on his shield.

"Worrying. I can feel you worrying all the back to the camp."

Carver breathes out, long and slowly, a weight living his body now that Merrill is here with him. "You know, I miss the days when all I had to worry about was how to get out of the barracks and how your tea would taste this week."

Merrill giggles. "And all I had to worry about was not to get lost between Lowtown and Darktown."

"That isn't true," Carver says, all humor gone from his voice. "And I never really thought about it, how elves are treated, how dangerous it was for you, a dalish mage, to walk around in Kirkwall."

"It wasn't that bad."

"What if some templar had caught you?" The mark on his hand begins to burn again, hissing and spitting. He clenches his fist to stop it. "If they had found out that you're a bloodmage, they would have made you tranquil and — "

Merrill presses her finger against his lips. "Shh. You're worrying again. That didn't happen and I wouldn't have let them. And you wouldn't have let them and Marian wouldn't have let them. I was as safe in Kirkwall as anywhere else."

Carver leans his forehead against hers and sighs. "Kirkwall of all places."

Merrill runs her fingers through his hair. "Your hair is getting too long, Vhenan, we need to tie it back."

His heart still does a little stumble whenever she says 'Vhenan', now that he knows what it means. "Yes, it's getting annoying."

Merrill pulls a slim green ribbon from her pocket and steps behind him to pull his hair back. "There is so much!" She laughs and with a few swift movements, she has his hair tied back at the nape of his neck.

Carver breathes a sigh of relief at the feeling of having his vision cleared and his ears free.

"We should get back to the others," Merrill says. "Krem came back, he found the party from Haven a few miles further north."

"We better get going, as long as the light still holds." He sheathes his sword and fixes the shield to his back. As he turns to walk back, Merrill slips her hand into his. He startles and looks down where her slim fingers almost disappear in his own. Merrill smiles up to him and Carver smiles back, holding on to her hand as they walk back.

Cassandra raises an eyebrow when they return but the rest of the troop is busy with loading the cart and picking up gear. Nobody cares that the Herald of Andraste and an elf are holding hands.

The road takes them through a canyon, past more abandoned farms. Occasionally they can see Redcliffe Castle overlooking the valley, an imposing building on a hill. Flags are flying on top of it but something looks off about it.

"Boss?" The Iron Bull turns to Carver and points to the castle. "I know I have problems with depth perception," he says and taps his finger against his eyepatch, "but I'm still fine with colors, and those flags there? Not fereldan colors."

"Yes," Cassandra says, "I'm not familiar with those flags."

As he stares at the castle in the distance, the hairs on his neck stand up and the mark in his Herald-hand begins to glow. "There's a rift, close by."

A scream from somewhere close to them has them search for the source.

"Up there, boss." The Iron Bull points up the mountain, where familiar green light glows and the edges of a rift crystal are visible over the edge.

Merrill looks up and frowns. "That's a steep climb. Worse than the Sundermount."

They leave the horses with the Inquisition soldiers and climb up the cliff face. Merrill dances up ahead, her feet finding purchase in the stones where Carver struggles.

"The cliffs should at least be red, don't you think?" she calls back.

Carver grabs a small tree that somehow has found a gap in these rocks to settle its roots. He pulls himself up over the edge, almost ripping the tree out. "What?"

"It's called Redcliffe, shouldn't there be some red cliffs around?"

"I never thought about that," Carver says, holding out his hand for Varric to hold on to. He pulls him over the edge and helps Cassandra and the Iron Bull next, fighting to keep his footing as the Iron Bull pulls. He holds out his hand to Vivienne as well but she somehow floats up the hill, only using his arm to steady herself.

The rift shines between trees and it is already aggravated, the crystal snapping into new forms with a sound that vibrates deep in Carver's spine. Demons jump out of the ground, already engaged in combat with a group of people. As he runs closer, he recognizes them as their own from Haven. Solas wields powerful magic from the side and Cullen fights between the trees with ex-templars at his side.

Carver hurries towards the center, to use the mark on the rift but something is different about this rift. Glowing yellow rings spin on the ground, vibrating with a strange magic, and they draw him closer. A demon comes out of the ground in the middle of a ring, its movements impossibly slowed. It strains for the edge, every move so slowed that it takes several minutes until it reaches the edge of the yellow light and then rushes forward. Carver cleaves through the demon and a fire spell ignites the rest of it. He stumbles backwards as the demon falls, the ring glowing at his feet and suddenly the sound of the battle drops to a drone.

The very air holds still, every move normal for him but outside of the ring, the fight continues with incredible speed. He hurries towards the edge of the ring but he is too slow. When he moves one step, the world outside of the ring moves ten. He raises his Herald-hand towards the rift crystal and focuses the energy, but the golden band crawls through the air, missing its mark, as everything else moves in a blink.

With a dash forward that seems to take forever, he reaches the edge of the ring and stumbles out. The noise of the fight returns with the screech of a demon, towering over him on spindly legs and he can only hold his shield up against the claw-like hands.

The ground rumbles under his feet, a massive stone barrier rising from the ground around him, just in time before the terror demon can grab him. An electric arc hits the demon and it twitches in place until it falls to a barrage of fire and ice.

At last, Carver can throw the energy from his hand towards the rift crystal, pulling at it with his power until it explodes. Silence settles between the trees and one after the other, the fighters come into the clearing to Carver.

"Are you alright, Vhenan?" Merrill asks at his side.

"Yes, but what was that?" He points to the area where the magical ring, that disappeared with the rift, had him trapped.

Solas crouches down and studies the ground where the ring had been. "There is very strange magic at work here."

"It seemed to alter time itself," Merrill says.

Cassandra scowls at the grass as if it is personally responsible for the strange magic. "How can a rift do that?"

Solas stands up and folds his hands in front. "I have not seen magic like this before."

Merrill takes Carver's Herald-hand and traces the cut with a fingertip. "Does it hurt?"

Carver shakes his head. "No, it's fine." He smiles at her and her answering smile warms him like a ray of sunshine.

"Carver, Herald, it's so good to see you." Cullen appears from among the trees and comes straight to Carver to pull him into a short embrace. "Without your hand's abilities, fighting the rifts is a losing battle."

Carver grins at that. "Well, I'm glad to be missed."

Cullen chuckles a bit but then gets serious. "I've had scouts go towards Redcliffe but the gate is closed and there's another rift right in front of it. The guard isn't letting anyone in or out."

"Once we've dealt with the rift, they will let us in, Fiona invited us herself." Carver watches Cullen, who looks down to his shuffling feet. "What? What's wrong?"

"Did you see the flags on the castle?"

"Yes,"

"The Arl of Redcliffe would never fly foreign cloth," Cullen says with a growl. "I have positioned scouts around the hills and they all tell me of large numbers of troops inside the walls in foreign armor."

"It's a trap."

"Very likely."

Carver looks towards the faint outline of Redcliffe Castle in the distance, a frown settling between his brows. Redcliffe Castle and the wall around the village are both formidable structures, hardened and perfected for all eternity to protect Ferelden against the Orlesian Empire. To think that a foreign power could have taken it —

"Andraste's arse, I knew it!" An angry scream interrupts Carver's thoughts. Mar storms towards him, his finger pointing in anger.

Alain runs after him. "What now?"

Instead of attacking Carver, the enraged mage points towards Cullen. "Do you see? Do you see who that is?" Magic crackles along his arms as he steps in front of Cullen, staring into his face. "Did you think you could exchange the Sword of Mercy for a sun and all is forgotten? Do you think I would forget what you did?"

"Mar," Alain calls to him but Mar doesn't let Cullen out of his sight.

"I didn't forget, and nobody else has forgotten you." He turns around to the mages from Kirkwall, pointing at Cullen. "It's him. Cullen, the Silencer."

* * *

 _By the way, Carver has learned what "Vhenan" means in the story How To Wash a Templar, part of this series on AO3 but with a higher rating, if you know what I mean XD_


	19. Chapter 19

_The fun thing about pantsing through the story is that themes crop up that I didn't plan for. So yes, we're not done with templars yet and also not with tranquil._

* * *

 _The Silencer._

The word hangs in the air as everyone watches Mar and Cullen.

Mar has his staff pointed at Cullen's throat in a familiar gesture. Carver tries to catch Alain's eyes, hoping for him to intervene but the mage looks just as angry as Mar. Carver steps between Mar and Cullen, which causes Cassandra to hurry to his side.

He puts his hand on Mar's staff. "You have to stop."

Mar looks at him and Carver sees that there is more to his anger. "No." Tears glitter in his eyes. "I can't. I can't forgive."

"I'm not asking you to forgive."

"What else then?" Mar drops his staff and grabs Carver's Herald-hand. Cassandra stiffens but looks at Carver, waiting for him to give her a signal.

"I can forgive you," Mar says to Carver, holding his hand up, "you carry Andraste's mark, you've been kind, you try to do good and what you say of the Inquisition is good, but him?" He points at Cullen. "After all he did?"

Cullen hangs his head and seems to shrink in on himself.

Mar turns to him but Carver holds him back with a hand on his chest. "Can you even sleep at night?" Mar hisses at Cullen. "Do you remember their names?"

"Yes," Cullen says, almost inaudible.

"Do you?" Mal cries out. "Sherenna? Do you remember how she cried until you silenced her?"

"Yes, I remember."

Carver's blood chills. He remembers that name, Sherenna had been a tranquil. She gave out breakfast and handled the daily lyrium vials.

Tears fall from Mar's eyes and he doesn't wipe them away. "You killed her and her corpse greeted me every morning."

Cullen stares at his hands. "Meredith sentenced her to tranquility. Because she was dangerous."

"She wasn't! She was just..." Mal turns and Alain wraps his arm around him, pulling him away. "She was just a mage."

Alain turns to Carver. "You're asking too much of us. Every templar has blood of our kind on their hands and I see how they still look at us, hating and fearing us, and you want us to work with them?"

"I know." Carver steps closer to Mar and Alain, putting himself in their line of sight. "I know that we start from poisoned ground. I know that we can't just forgive, none of us. But we have to start somewhere. If we don't work together, the war will never end and the Breach will kill us all."

Mar snarls at him. "This is easy for you, _templar_. You know nothing of our plight! Just because you keep a mage knife-ear— "

"- you better not finish that sentence," Carver growls as Cassandra steps in front of him with her sword drawn.

"I will not accept this insult towards the Herald of Andraste." Her sword tip hovers right over Mar's eye and it glows. "Your past informs your anger, I understand that but you will not disrespect the Herald and his betrothed."

"I apologize," Mar says quickly, sweat breaking out on his forehead. His fist is opening and closing at his side but no magical effect appears and he stares at it in confusion.

Cassandra lowers her sword slowly, the glow fading from it. "The inquisition offers a home to anybody, regardless of their past. The Herald of Andraste judges you for your actions now, not for what you or anybody did before the Breach. Search your conscience if you want to join him or not."

Mal stares at Cassandra and leaves wordlessly but Alain looks back and studies the sword in her hand with unguarded curiosity before he addresses Carver again. "We want to speak to the mages in Redcliffe before we make a decision."

Carver nods and watches Alain go to the other Kirkwall mages. The Iron Bull draws them into a conversation, while Krem and Dalish are watching. Carver wonders how much of a setup this meeting is and what a Hasserath spy could learn from refugee mages.

Cassandra sheathes her sword and Carver turns to her. "It glowed, your sword. What in the void?"

"I'm a Seeker. It's not something we talk about."

Varric appears out of nowhere with a grin. "Oh no, Seeker, fess up."

"Hah! Seeker powers," Carver recalls, pointing his finger triumphantly at Cassandra. "Setting lyrium in the blood aflame, that's what that was, right?"

Cassandra blushes, looking almost sheepish. "I did not set him aflame."

"Obviously," Varric says.

"I can nullify the lyrium, making it harder for a mage to use their powers."

"Maker's arse," Varric blurts. "Why have you not used that before?"

"It's very difficult," Cassandra says. "He stood still, that helped."

"That's a very specific spell they taught you," Merrill says from the side where she kneels to pick leaves from a flower.

"I am no mage, the Seekers didn't teach me spells," Cassandra says and turns away in a huff.

Merrill watches her, a faint smile playing on her lips. She picks another leaf, smoothes it in the palm of her hand and carefully rolls it up before she puts it into the herb-bag at her hip. When she stands up, her face lights up and she strolls over to Carver.

"Vhenan," she says, sliding her hand into his. "I'm your betrothed?"

Carver's breath stops for a heartbeat. "Well, yes? I guess that's what it is called when you... when you— " the words get stuck in his throat. Of course he wants to marry Merrill one day but he hasn't quite thought that far ahead yet. "When you—"

"When you've found your Vhenan," Merrill says quietly and squeezes his hand.

"Blimey, I have to write this down." Varric digs into his bag and pulls out a notebook.

"Oh yes, I want to see what you write." Merrill grabs his arm and pulls him over to a fallen tree to sit on. "I've never been a betrothed before. Do I get a special flower to wear?"

"I have no idea, Daisy." Varric settles down and begins to write, with Merrill looking over his shoulder.

Carver watches her, happiness jumping around in his chest like an overexcited fennec. "Do dalish give flowers for an engagement?" he wonders aloud.

"I don't know," Cullen murmurs, "you could ask Solas."

"Maybe your friend Dasan knows."

Cullen sighs. "Dasan is not... he left, to return to his clan."

"I'm sorry, I thought you —"

"It was not meant to be." Cullen gives him a weak smile and lowers his voice. "Maybe I was taking up too much, me, an ex-templar with an elf, a bloodmage at that."

"An elven bloodmage at your side would have given Mar something to chew on, for sure," Carver says.

Cullen lets out a bitter laugh and straightens his back against an invisible weight pressing him down. "Maybe I shouldn't command the troops. The things I did..."

Carver puts his hand on Cullen's shoulder, his gauntlet scraping against the shoulder guard. "I need you, as a Commander of the troops and as an example."

"What kind of example can I be?"

"Change, growth, doing better."

"My past, the things I have done," Cullen says, his fists clenched at his sides, "they will never be gone. I was weak, vicious, living for my hate. I had given up to think for myself, to question orders, to ask my own conscience. How can ask this now of new recruits?"

"Because you are different now," Carver says, "you're showing them that change is possible. We can't get rid of our past but we have to move forward."

"But maybe Cassandra would be better for— "

Carver glances over to the shade of trees, where Cassandra studies the remains of a demon. "No. The only reason why the Seekers seem to have such a clean past is because they're so secretive. After what Cassandra showed us here today, I'm sure she has some shady spots in her past as well." Carver gives Cullen's arm a push and leads him away from the remnants of the fight. The sunlight warms their armor, a welcome change after the cold of the last few weeks. "And Cassandra is an exceptional warrior but she has never organised an army."

Cullen raises his head, looking at the sun creeping towards the horizon. "I swore loyalty to you and I want you to know that I have not regretted it to this day."

Carver snorts. "Well, the day is still young."

"No." Cullen turns to him, fixing him with an intense stare. "I mean it. Andraste could not have chosen better for her Herald."

Carver swallows his discomfort and bows his head. "Thank you." Sometimes he wishes he could believe like that, _know_ like that. For now, he can only accept that kind of faith in him and hope it doesn't bite him in the ass one day. "We should get going."

"It may be wise to keep to a small group going into Redcliffe."

"We don't want to look like an invasion."

Cullen nods. "Yes, and... according to our scout, nobody expects us."

"What?" Carver squints against the light to make out the foreign flags on the castle. "But Grand Enchanter Fiona herself invited us."

"Are you sure it was her?"

"Cassandra recognized her." Thinking back to that meeting in Val Royeaux, Carver can't help but feel like he missed something important back then.

The door falls closed behind Magister Alexius and his son, the former Grand Enchanter Fiona and the rest of their entourage leaving with them. The noise of the tavern, curiously quiet before, rises again; the tavern singer begins a song about Andraste's mabari and guests are calling for new ale. Carver steps out of the way of the waitress and gestures towards his companions to come over to him. He opens his hand and smoothes the scrap of paper in it.

"Did the magister's son give you that?" Cassandra asks.

"Yes, he must have faked his illness. Although he really didn't look well." Carver holds the paper up, the hasty writing is hard to read. 'Come to the Chantry, you are in danger'

"How promising," Varric says. "I gather that's where we'll be going next?"

Carver shoves the paper in his pocket. "Let's talk to a few people first, I want to know what happened here."

"How did the magister do this?" Cassandra wonders quietly. "How could he be here, right after the destruction of the temple?"

Varric shakes his head. "And then the mages sold themselves to him. Indentured service to a tevinter magister. I can't even think of a worse idea."

"Let's spread out in the village," Carver says. "Ask people how long the tevinter troops have been here, what they know of the war, and what happened to the Arl. Stay in groups of at least three, we don't know how welcome we are here. We'll meet in half an hour at the chantry."

Most of the Inquisition leave the tavern but Alain, Mar and Keanah hesitate. The fourth mage, who never said a word to Carver in the last few days, now turns to him. "With the rebel mages indentured, what does that mean for us?"

"I think if you stay here, you'll be indentured along with them for ten years and then..." Carver shrugs.

"Then we'll be on our own in Tevinter," Alain says. "That's not what I wanted."

"Fighting for Tevinter," Keanah says bitterly. "I didn't escape the gallows to become a magister's war fodder."

"There must have been mages here in Redcliffe before all this," Carver points out. "Try to find out what happened, please. "

The mages nod reluctantly and leave the tavern. Only Merrill and Solas stay with him. She turns to Carver, smiling expectantly. "Do you want to talk to the tranquil?"

"The man over there?" He has noticed the quiet man, standing in a ray of sunlight coming through the window. Nobody talks to him.

"Yes." Merrill goes over to the man and introduces herself. When he turns to her and Carver, the light catches on the sun relief on his forehead.

"You must be the Herald," the tranquil says in a voice that carries no emotion.

"I'm Carver Hawke."

"My name is Clemence. Can I be of assistance?"

"How did you get here?"

"I am from Redcliffe, I was brought to the Circle as a child. My magic was insufficient to protect me from demons and I had to be made tranquil to protect myself and others." Even without emotion in his voice, he sounds as if he could have been a singer. His voice is deep, carrying the memory of warmth. "I worked in the castle but Magister Alexius had me removed. He doesn't like to be reminded of what mages can become."

Merrill holds out her hand and Clemence puts his own hand in hers after some hesitation. "Who takes care of you now?" she asks.

"The tavern keep gives me leftover food. I try to be useful in return." He looks down at his hand in Merrill's. "People in Redcliffe prefer not to see me."

"You can come with us," Carver says.

"Would you have use of me?"

"I'm sure we can find something."

"I cannot leave the templars alone."

"What templars?"

Clemence turns to him and Carver has to force himself to look into his eyes.

"The chantry used to have a contingent of templars. Most of them left after the news of the Conclave reached Redcliffe and the tevinters arrived. Three templars stayed behind but they ran out of lyrium soon. I have been taking care of them."

"Where are they?"

"I can show you." Clemence goes towards the exit and as he follows him with Merrill, Carver notices that Solas lingers behind.

"Are you coming with us?"

Solas turns to him, his face speaking of genuine surprise before it turns back to his usual impassive expression. "Yes, of course."

Merrill turns to him. "Did you feel something?"

Solas looks at her as if he sees her for the first time. "Yes, there was something about the magister, but I cannot quite say what."

Merrill nods at that. "I felt that too. Like an echo."

"Yes." Solas turns fully to her, eyebrows raised in surprise. "An echo indeed. I didn't think anybody else would feel that."

"It was very faint."

"I'm Solas." He bows his head shortly, his gaze never leaving her.

"I'm Merrill, I'm Carver's betrothed," she says with a bright smile.

"So I heard." Solas steps aside to let Merrill go through the door in front of him, still looking at her intently, as if he studies her.

Carver shakes his head, it's probably just his imagination that Solas appears to be so interested in Merrill.

Clemence leads them to a simple hut with a sturdy door that the tranquil unlocks with a key from a string around his neck.

"They are locked in?"

"It was necessary, for their own safety and the people in the village. They attacked people." Clemence opens the door and lets them step in first before closing and locking the door behind him again. "The Revered Mother Eglantine ordered me to keep them in here."

Two men on the cots do not look like they could hurt anyone. They shiver under warm blankets, skeletal hands holding them closed. The skin on their faces stretches like a canvas over bone and their hair has fallen out in clusters. But the third person, a woman, looks relatively healthy, besides the bald patches on her head. She is dangerously thin and her hands are shaking but she sits upright and she looks at Carver with alert eyes.

Clemence goes to one of the shivering men and wets a towel in a bowl of water to drape it over his forehead. Then he tends to other templar the same way, wiping the sweat from the templar's forehead.

"Who have you brought here, Clemence?" The third templar stands up. She is dressed in a simple robe, it hangs from her thin frame, the sword of mercy on her chest not quite so white anymore.

Clemence doesn't look up. "This is the Herald of Andraste."

"What an honor." It doesn't sound like she feels truly honored and she studies Carver critically. "Last I heard, the chantry declared you a traitor."

Carver shrugs. "That works out alright because we're not kissing up to them anymore either."

"You defy the chantry? Her holiness the Divine?" The templar is getting louder with every word, causing the two sick templars to groan and twitch on their cots.

"The Divine is dead, if you haven't heard, and the Inquisition was her last will." Carver wishes Cassandra were here to take over and he frantically searches his mind to come up with something she would say. "The Chantry has failed us all, it has failed the templars, the mages, and the people of Thedas. We're trying to build something new, an organisation where templars and mages work together, without locking up mages and leashing templars to lyrium." He looks to the two skeletal, shivering templars, who barely open their eyes as he speaks. "That last bit should interest you, I'd gather."

The templar looks down, clenching her fingers against a slight tremor. "I have never known suffering like these last few weeks. I wished for my death many times."

A new idea forms in Carver's mind and he can just hear his sister scolding him for speaking before thinking things through, but he says it anyway. "I want to find a way of curing the addiction. Maybe you can help with that."

"Why do you care?"

"Apart from me being a templar myself? It's just a really shitty way of binding people, I think."

Merrill proudly smiles at him and Carver feels a weight drop from his shoulders. If Merrill supports him, anything is possible.

The templar sits back down on his cot, shaking her head. "We needed the powers to control mages. What will you do if mages turn against you?"

"We'll find a way. And we have mages on our side." Not many and definitely not enough but he doesn't have to mention that right now.

"If me and my brothers come with you, you will have to take Clemence along too."

"I already offered him to take him with us and he said he couldn't leave you alone."

The templar gets up and kneels down in front of Clemence, putting her hand on his shoulder. "He is a good person."

Merrill kneels down next to Clemence and takes the cloth from him to rinse it out in the bowl. "What would you like to do?" she asks him as she hands the cloth back.

"I like having a purpose. I have knowledge of potions and would like to apply that."

Merrill turns to the templar. "Did you know him when he was still a mage?"

She shakes her head and looks away. "No, he had already been a tranquil when I came to Redcliffe."

Merrill lays her head to the side. "Would you have noticed him when he was still a mage?"

"Probably not. I... I had orders."

Carver remembers those orders well. 'Watch the mages, for they have no control. Never let them get too close. Always be vigilant.'

The templar stands up. "My brothers need help, they need Clemence' potions. The tevinters aren't going to help us. If you're willing to help us, we'll be coming with you and offer our services as best as we can."

Carver crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You will have to work with mages."

"Are you here to win Fiona's rebel mages to your side?"

"I was, but the situation has changed."

The templar sighs, wringing her hands again. "They practically gave all of Redcliffe over to the tevinters."

Carver looks out through the door and sees his companions walking toward the chantry. "I want to hear about when and how the tevinters came here but that will have to wait. We'll get you when we leave Redcliffe."

"We'll wait here."

Carver steps out of the hut, blinking against the sunlight. "I came here to get mages and now I have more templars."

"And I'm afraid at least the two on the cots won't be of much help," Solas says quietly.

"But if they get better..." Carver stops when he sees Solas' expression.

"I'm offering my services as a healer," Solas says, "But from what I have sensed and seen, their fate leaves not much hope."

"Fucking void." Carver kicks a rock out of the way and stomps up the path to the chantry. The vial of templar lyrium burns in his pocket, a twisting leash to keep him in line.

"Carver?"

Merrill's hand on his arms startles him from his thoughts.

"I think that man there needs help." She points to an elderly elf, who mutters to himself.

"And you think I should...?"

Merrill looks up to him, her eyebrows raised high. "Yes, I think you should."

Carver nods and turns to the elven man. "Serah, can I help you in any way?"

The elf looks up to him with wide eyes. "What kind of world is this where a man can't even put flowers on his wife's grave?"

"Why can't you put flowers on her grave?"

The man sighs and pulls his cape tighter around his frail shoulders. "With the war going on, it's too dangerous to walk out to her resting place at my age. I used to bring her flowers every year, but this year..."

Carver takes out the map and shows it to the widower. "Where's your wife's grave?"

The man points with a trembling finger to a spot not far from Redcliffe. "Up there, in Hafter's Woods. It's not far, but with my old bones..."

Carver puts the map pack into his jacket and takes the elf's hand. "I will put flowers on her grave for you as soon as we come through those woods."

"Thank you, thank you so much." The elf takes Carver's hand and shakes it. "I never would have thought that a human would help an elf like me."

"Eh, yes, of course." Carver frees his hand from the man and steps back with a nod. Merrill comes to his side and smiles at him as he turns to her. "And you think it was important that I speak to him and help him with the flowers?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he's important?"

"Everyone is important, Vhenan," Merrill says.

"You're right, I forget that sometimes." Carver looks around as they keep on walking. People stand around in clusters, talking to each other. From what he can hear, most seem to be glad that the Inquisition is in Redcliffe and they worry about the tevinter mages practicing battle formations near the city gate. In the distance, tevinter soldiers march up from the harbor, singing a foreign song.

"Do you think all of the tevinters are mages?" Merrill asks.

"I don't know." Carver shrugs. "Tevinter was not something we worried about in Ferelden, we were busy with Orlais and then darkspawn. An army of mages — we have nothing to set against that, at least not yet."

"When we came into Redcliffe," Solas says quietly, "I saw only a few of the foreign troops practicing movements that could be used in spellwork. But they could hide their abilities."

"Maybe Cullen has a point with his idea of a templar army," Carver mumbles, more to himself than to the mages at his side.

"But you want to cure templars of the lyrium addiction," Merrill says, equally quiet.

"What if we can't? What if we shouldn't because we need their powers?" Carver groans. "It was a stupid idea."

"No." Merrill grabs his arm and pulls him back. They are at the bottom of the steps leading up to the wooden building with the chantry sun on the doors. Their companions are already waiting, looking at them expectantly but Merrill holds him back. "It was not a stupid idea. We have to learn more about it, about templar powers, how they're different from mage powers and why you all feel it when dragons are near. We have to learn and then we'll find a way."

"I just..." Carver leans down and presses his forehead against Merrill's. "I hope you're right, I just wish at least one thing would be easy for a change, just once."

"We'll find a way," Merrill repeats and her smile is enough to give Carver a new thread of hope to hold onto.

"Alright." He straightens his back and looks up to the tower of the chantry. "One thing after the other. Let's see what kind of surprise they have prepared for us there."

"Not the good kind of surprise?" Merrill asks.

"Probably not."

Merrill sighs and readies her staff. Carver tightens the strap of his shield and unsheathes his sword. Together they climb up the last steps and Carver opens the door with a shove of his shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

_There is a lot of in game dialogue in here, it's just too important. I never wanted to make a retelling fic and look what I'm doing now. I promise, after all that bad future stuff is done, I will deviate more from the game story and give Merrill more spotlight. We just have to get through this important part, alright?_

* * *

As soon as the door of the Redcliffe chantry swings against the wall, the hairs on the back of Carver's neck stand up and the mark breaks out in green flames in his hand.

"A rift, a large one," he says.

Merrill nods. "And time magic."

Solas' head snaps around to her. "Yes, indeed." He keeps his eyes on her as she readies her staff and slowly puts his own staff out front. Leaving Varric's side, he goes over to Merrill, bowing his head to her when she smiles at him.

"Get ready!" Cassandra calls out and takes her familiar place at Carver's left side. Merrill and Solas fall back and spread out with Varric, and Carver is glad to see the Iron Bull on his other side as he walks towards the rift. They took a smaller group into the city but he had hoped the qunari and his giant battle axe would make up for the lack of numbers.

"Avoid the yellow rings," he calls out as the first demon rises in front of him and then the fight takes every ounce of concentration from him.

Massive demons of rage, terror and fear rise from the ground, attacking them with incredible strength. Carver throws the golden energy from the mark towards the crystalline rift as often as he can, buying them a short break each time to gather their strength but then the demons attack again, with more force than before. He only notices that another mage fights demons near the rift, when he almost smashes his shield in his face as he cuts through a demon.

"There you are!" the man calls out, hitting a demon over the head with his staff. "Help me close this will you?"

"I'm working on it," Carver presses out between clenched teeth. He stretches his hand up and focuses on the mark, as if he feeds part of himself into it. The golden rope of light crackles through the air, hitting the rift crystal. Carver mentally tightens it like a noose, pulling the energy closer around the crystal until it shatters, leaving him breathless when the connection breaks.

The rift closes with an unnatural noise, the remaining demons turning to ash and sinking down gently. Carver leans forward, his hand on his knees, trying to catch his breath. The foreign mage comes up to him and looks at him with unguarded curiosity.

"Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?"

Carver takes another deep breath and straightens. "I close the rift, that's how that works."

"You don't even know, do you?" The mage laughs out. "You just wiggle your fingers and boom — rift closes."

"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears," Carver says.

"Admittedly, I do not." The man bows his head. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous."

"Another tevinter," Cassandra growls behind Carver. "Be cautious with this one."

"Suspicious friends you have here." He turns his attention back to Carver with a winning smile. "Since you have made acquaintances with Magister Alexius, you might want to know that he was once my mentor. My assistance should be valuable to you."

Carver looks the man over. He is quite handsome and dressed in a multilayered tevinter garb that looks expensive but well worn. "I'll need to know a bit more before I decide if I can trust you."

The Iron Bull lets out a huff and glowers at the tevinter mage with his one eye. "The pretty ones are always the worst."

"Flattering," Dorian deadpans.

He really is pretty, Carver has to admit. "I was expecting Felix, where is he?"

"He should be here soon, he was to give you the note and then meet us here, after ditching his father."

"Is Felix really ill?"

"Yes, he's had some lingering illness for months. His father dotes over him, he is his only child."

Merrill steps forward, studying the tip of Dorian's staff that peeks over his shoulder. "Are you a magister?"

Dorian frowns at her and shakes his head. "Let's settle this once and for all. I'm a mage from tevinter but not a member of the magisterium, therefore I'm not a magister." He lets out a dramatic sigh. "I know you southerners use the terms interchangeably but that really makes you sound like barbarians."

Carver is about to lash out with some explicit but Merrill's giggle stops him. "You're funny," she says.

Carver relaxes and grins. "Yes, should we applaud?"

"Ah, if the applause doesn't come naturally, it isn't worth it." Dorian scowls but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Back to all this, there are some dangerous things going on, that much should be obvious."

Carver groans. "You want a list?"

"Hah, look who's funny now." Dorian gives him a smile but then turns serious. "Let's start with Alexius and how he claimed the allegiance with the rebel mages right from under your noses. As if by magic, yes?"

"Time magic," Merrill says breathlessly.

"Exactly," Dorian says. "To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself."

Carver feels a headache coming on and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Just to be here right after the Divine died, he fucked with time? Can that please be less dangerous than it sounds?"

Dorian shakes his head. "I see you grasp the gravity of the situation."

"That is fascinating if true," Solas says. "Many have attempted these things over the ages but never succeeded."

"The rift in here," Merrill says, "it twisted time."

"Soon there will be more like this," Dorian says, "and they will appear further and further away from Redcliffe."

"Andraste's dirty knickers," Varric blurts out, "the world can't handle that."

Doiran nods. "The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable and it will unravel the world."

"Magister or not, how do _you_ know about this magic?" Carver asks carefully.

"I helped him develop the theory."

"Oh, _thanks_."

"I was his apprentice, it's not like I could stop him!" Dorian cries out defensively. "It was just an idea, not feasible to ever work. I don't understand how it can work now and why he's doing it? The risk of ripping time to shreds, just to gain a few hundred lackeys, is way too high."

The door of the chantry falls closed behind them, startling them all, and the magister's son Felix comes up to them. "He didn't do it for lackeys."

Felix and Dorian exchange a friendly greeting, they seem to know each other well. Eventually, Felix turns to Carver and explains that his father has joined a cult of tevinter supremacists.

"A cult?"

Felix nods. "They call themselves Venatori. And whatever my father did for them, he did it to get to you. If the Venatori are behind these rifts or even the breach in the sky, they're even worse than I thought."

"And why is he after me?" Carver looks from Felix to Dorian and back but they both seem uncertain.

"The Venatori are obsessed with you," Felix says. "Maybe because you're the survivor of the Temple of the Sacred Ashes?"

"And you _can_ close those rifts, that's very useful," Dorian says.

"All this for me," Carver says, grinning at Cassandra, "and I didn't even get Alexius anything."

"Oh, I like you," Dorian says as Cassandra makes disgusted noise. "You should get him a fruit basket, everyone likes those."

"What a good idea," Merrill says quietly and Carver isn't sure if she means it sincerely or not.

"So the next time Alexius invites us ever so nicely to Redcliffe — " Carver muses.

" — it's going to be another trap," Cassandra finishes for him.

Carver looks Felix over. "Alexius is your father and you're working against him?"

"I love my father, I love my country but this? Cults? Time Magic? This is madness." He looks at Carver, his hands held up pleadingly. "For his own sake and all our sakes, you have to stop him."

Dorian throws his hands up. "It would also be nice if he didn't rip a hole in time, there's already a hole in the sky."

"How many Venatori are down here in the south by now?" Carver asks. "How big is this cult?"

"I'm not sure," Felix says. "Hundreds, maybe a thousand?"

"Maker's breath."

"I can't stay in Redcliffe," Dorian says, tightening his staff on his back, "and neither should you. Alexius doesn't know that I'm here and I'd like to keep it that way and you aren't safe here either. But I'm sure we'll meet again." He turns and walks to a door in the side of the building. "And Felix..." He turns, holding his hands in a triangle form, "try not to get yourself killed."

"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," Felix says with a gloomy undertone.

He nods at Carver and the rest of the Inquisition and leaves through the main door.

"That fella," Varric says, "doesn't look good at all. And such a cheery outlook on life."

Cassandra steps up to Carver's side. "If the magister contacts us again, we have to be prepared."

Carver nods. "Next time they won't let us just stroll through the main gate, I think."

"There's usually more than one way to get into a city," Varric says thoughtfully.

"Oh yes," Merrill says, "sometimes the city elves have their own secret passageways."

"And the castle is old," Cassandra says. "Maybe it has a weakness."

"Well, let's investigate as long as we still can." Carver leads them out of the chantry.

The sun is setting but they still squint against the light after the gloomy darkness of the chantry. The winding roads of Redcliffe are noticeably emptier now, only a few people watch them as they walk slowly towards the castle. It sits atop a hill, overlooking the village. A well kept road curves up towards the castle doors but they avoid the road in favour of a trampled path towards an old mill. Carver is well aware of the Venatori soldiers watching them from afar. Luckily, the old path puts a few trees between them and the watchers.

"Carver," Varric calls to him, "look here." Varric points to an area behind the mill, where it seems to lean against the city wall. Carver has to bend down to see what Varric can easily see from his height. Varric grins. "Yes, get down on my level. See there? There's a gate, probably used to be used to deliver the grains."

"We should open it so that we can get in from outside." Carver takes out his sword to cut down the bushes covering the path but Varric stops him.

"No, we don't want to raise suspicions by playing gardener here."

"I can get in there," Merrill says. She hands Carver her staff and slides into the bush like a cat. The leaves rustle a bit, as if they are surprised to be disturbed and then the bush closes behind her like a green wall.

"Merrill? Are you alright?" Carver can't even see her moving until her head appears on the other side of the shrubbery.

"I'm here!" she calls out to him, waving her arm over her head. She disappears again but before Carver can worry, the twigs in front of him shiver and Merrill spills out again. "All done."

Varric does a short whistle. "I'm impressed, Daisy, I had no idea you can lockpick."

"I can't, I have magic."

"Right." Varric shakes his head.

"I broke the lock with ice but I sealed the door with magic."

"Good thinking," Carver says and Merrill beams at him. "Now that we have this little backdoor, lets get out of here before the Venatori decide that they need a Herald in their dungeon."

Carver holds the cup of scalding hot tea in both hands to warm himself. Even if the weather seems to get warmer every day now, the mornings are still crispy cold. They've been camped at this small stream for two days now, taking a well earned rest. Looking around, he sees Merrill sitting with her own cup of tea, discussing a text in a book with Alain. Solas stands near by, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. Carver follows his eyes and sees Cullen up on a hill.

He picks up a bowl of porridge and a spoon and trots up to where Cullen is standing. He stares out into the rolling landscape before them, his brows drawn in a frown.

"Morning."

Cullen startles. "Maker, where did you come from?"

Carver takes a spoonful of porridge and blows on it, the steam dancing over it. "Well, I just stepped out of my tent, what did you do? Did you sleep at all?"

"A little. It's..." He sighs. "Are you taking your lyrium?"

Carver nods. "I don't like it, it irritates the mark and it makes me... I never like the shithead it makes me. But I can't go into withdrawals now."

Cullen sighs again, wringing his hands. "I know you never took as much as you could have."

"One thing you learn growing up in a mage household — how dangerous lyrium is. Father was a Circle mage, he always warned us of the templars and how they were the most dangerous in the morning, after their dose."

"First templar training in the morning, right after the morning dose. I never made the connection."

Carver looks at him from the side. "Didn't you or did you not _want_ to?"

Cullen bows his head, a breath leaving him long and slow. "You're right. The latter. I didn't want to know. I didn't want know anything, question anything." He pulls a small vial with a familiar blue glow from his pocket. It is half filled with lyrium solution. "I've been taking only half a dose for the last ten days."

"Why?"

"I don't want to be on that leash anymore."

Carver nods. "And how do you feel?"

"Nightmares, I don't sleep well." He turns fully to Carver. "Headaches."

"The apothecary should have something for the headaches at least."

"I'll ask."

"Ask Merrill too." Carver doesn't miss the flinch in Cullen's face. "Do you trust me?"

Cullen stands up straight. "Of course."

"Then trust Merrill."

"I..." Cullen deflates. "Yes, I'm... I will."

They stand in silence for a while, Carver eating his porridge and Cullen staring out into the landscape.

"What are you looking at?" Carver asks, after he has finished his breakfast.

"Over there, past that hill with the three trees on top, that's where I grew up. Honnleath is right behind that hill."

"Do you want to visit your family? It would only take us a day at the most. And the last raven from Leliana told us to wait here, so we have time."

Cullen shakes his head. "No, I haven't seen them since I left for the templars and nothing draws me back there."

"Did you write them?"

Cullen shakes his head.

"Andraste's dirty knickers, do they even know you're alive?"

"Why should they think — "

"Because half of Kirkwall exploded?" Carver shakes his head. "Shit can happen," he says quietly. "You should let them know before it's too late."

Cullen opens his mouth to say something but then just stares into the direction of his old home. Carver puts his hand on the heavy fur of his coat for a moment and then walks back to the camp.

Merrill is still pouring over a text with a notebook beside her. Carver takes the pot of tea over to her and picks up her cup from the ground to warm up the sad, cold remains in there.

"Hey," he says softly, holding out her cup to her.

"Vehnan!" she says and looks up to him. Carver hesitates but then throws protocol to the wind and presses a kiss on her smiling mouth. Her lips are cold but soft and open to give way for a tiny giggle that seems to dance into his own mouth, making him smile.

An embarrassed cough behind him pulls him back into the real world. He turns around to see a young boy, his ears and cheeks bright red.

"I'm sorry, Lord Herald."

"I'm no Lord, calling me Herald is bad enough," Carver grumbles through his teeth.

"It is bad?" The boy looks like that remark just shattered his whole world.

"Nevermind, just don't call me Lord. Do you have a message for me?"

"Yes." The boy straightens and repeats an obviously rehearsed message. "Lady Montilyet asks you to attend the advisor meeting in half an hour, regarding an invitation the Inquisition has received in your name."

"Lady Montilyet? Advisor meeting? Does she expect me to fly to Haven on a griffon?"

"No Lord, ehm, Herald. She's on her way here."

Carver stares at the boy, who looks at him as if he questions his sanity. "What do you mean here?"

"Here, in the camp." The boy looks at him expectantly until Carver dismisses him with a thanks and he runs away, occasionally looking over his shoulder.

Merrill wraps her book in a piece of cloth and puts it inside her leather bag before she stands up. "Who is Lady Montilyet?" she asks as she comes up to his side.

"Josephine, a noble lady, our ambassador to speak to all the nobles and convince them to support us with money and supplies. She belongs in rooms with curtains, carpets and chandeliers, not out here in the wilderness."

Carver sees Cassandra hurry through the camp and walks up to her, with Merrill at his side. "Cassandra!"

Cassandra whips around, panic in her expression. "Carver. Herald. Josephine and Leliana are on their way here. With wagons, a whole trek of them."

"How in tarnation...?" When he turns around to look at Merrill, she has disappeared from his side and climbed up into a tree. From her high vantage point she looks out over the Hinterlands, with the Frostback Mountains rising up high in the far distance, glowing in eery green from the Breach.

"I see them," Merrill calls out. She climbs back down, securly stepping from branch to branch. For the last bit she jumps down, a glow from her hands slowing her fall so that she steps gently on the ground as if she just went down some stairs. "We saw a travelling Circus once, back in Ferelden. It looked just like that."

Carver stares in astonishment as the first wagon rumbles into the camp, followed by at least four others. Their little campsite at the river can barely accommodate all of the vehicles and horses. The door on the first wagon opens and Josephine jumps out, dressed immaculately in golden and blue ruffles, her fashionable puffy pants folded into kneehigh boots. She strides over the mud and grass as if she takes a stroll through an orlesian garden.

"Herald Carver, I'm glad to see you well." Josephine holds the familiar clipboard in one hand and a quill in the other, as if she never stopped taking notes.

"Josephine, how..." Carver urges his mind to catch up. "Why are you here?"

"There is absolutely no point in having you travel to Haven just to meet with Leliana and me, when the rest of your advisors are already here."

"I never would have asked you to take up such a trip."

Josephine dismisses his remark with a flick of her quill. "I'm no wilting flower, I traveled with the trade caravans of my parents quite often."

Krem comes up to them, presenting a perfect bow towards Josephine. "Lady Montilyet, how nice to see you."

Josephine smiles brightly at Krem. "Messere Aclassi, it's nice to see you too. May I bother you for some help with my things in a moment?"

"Certainly, my Lady." Krem bows again. Carver could have sworn that his ears have turned pink but he turns away too fast to see.

"Excellent." Josephine walks back to her wagon and directs Krem to several boxes. In few minutes, she has him set up a portable table and has spread out the familiar map on top of it. "Herald?" she calls out to Carver, her quill tapping against her clipboard with a hint of impatience.

"Ehm, yes," Carver stammers. "Could someone get Cullen? And Varric?" He looks around and sees Cassandra nodding and sending the messenger boy from before up the hill to where Cullen stands.

Varric strolls over from the fire, holding a notebook under his arm. "Looks like the Inquisition has advanced to travelling circus."

"That's what I thought too!" Merrill laughs out.

They gather around the table, relatively alone but Carver is sure that lots of people strain their ears to hear the conversation. Not to mention the Iron Bull, who leans against a sack with his eyes closed but probably not as deeply asleep as he tries ot appear.

As Cullen joins them, Leliana comes to the table, accompanied by a bearded man with the symbol of the Wardens on his breastplate. "Herald Carver, may I introduce Warden Blackwall. He has found us in Haven, just as we left and has proven a valuable fighter as we came down here."

"Welcome Warden Blackwall," Carver says. "Were you on the Stormfront before? We found traces that the wardens had been there but they were gone."

"Not recently, no," Blackwall says. "I'm afraid I can't tell you what happened to the wardens, I haven't seen a fellow warden in months. No new orders have reached me, so I have been doing what I've always done, protect people and look for darkspawn."

"That will be a tremendous help for us." Carver starts to formulate a question about his sisters but decides to keep that to a more personal conversation. "Josephine, why don't you start with the letter you received."

"Yes," Josephine says, unrolling a scroll. "Magister Alexius invites you to the castle of Redcliffe." She looks at Carver. "You, personally, by name."

Carver grunts. "I'm flattered."

"It's a trap of course," Leliana says.

Carver looks at the map. "There's no point in marching against the castle, is there?"

Cullen shakes his head. "Redcliffe castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults. And we don't have the manpower anyway."

"And if we march against the castle," Josephine interrupts, "it will be seen as an orlesian attack against Ferelden."

"I wasn't aware that the Inquisition is orlesian," Carver says. "I mean, I'm fereldan."

"In this case we are. Most of our financial support comes form Orlais." Josephine shrugs apologetic. "Our Herald being fereldan is not enough to pacify the arls and banns. The king of Ferelden — " She takes a breath and produces another scroll. "The king is hard to reach, he travels a lot. Queen Anora is generally inclined to be supportive of us but she has delegated the control of the outer borders to King Alistair and leaves those decisions to him. The king has sent us a note, expressing his surprise that an army, that nobody told him about, is being raised in Haven."

"Which happens to be in Ferelden." Carver flinches. "That was kind of rude of us, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Josephine says, "I must admit, it had slipped my notice how that must appear to the king."

"We're going to have to fix that later." Carver looks at the map again. "I need the mages. If we can't march against the castle, why not accept the invitation?"

"No," Cullen barks. "If you go in there, you'll die. We can't risk losing you and your mark."

"We can't leave Redcliffe in the hands of a tevinter Magister. As King Calenhad Theirin once said: 'The fate of Redcliffe is the fate of all Ferelden.' This cannot be allowed to stand." Cassandra sounds as if that mere fact is a personal insult to her. "The king will defend Redcliffe."

"That will take a while," Leliana says. "Ferelden has still not recovered from all the damages of the Blight and the Arls are reluctant to send their men into a new fight at the eastern border. We can't wait for that to come to pass."

Merrill clears her throat. "There must be another way, a secret escape route, service tunnels for the elves working there."

"Wait," Leliana says, "there is a secret passage, for the family to escape in case the castle falls. We can't get an army in that way — "

" — but a small group of agents?" Carver finishes for her. "I accept the invitation and go in with two or three advisors, Leliana's spies lead in some of our soldiers to attack Alexius' men when everyone is distracted and another troop uses our backdoor behind the mill to block access to the castle from the outside so they can't call in support."

Cullen looks at him, his face slowly changing from anger to worry. "I still don't like setting you up as bait, but it could work."

"No it won't."

They all turn to look at the mage from the chantry, Dorian. He saunters towards the table, a breathless messenger running after him.

"Commander, this man says has information about the magister and — "

"It's alright," Carver interrupts him. "Cullen, this is Dorian, the tevinter mage who helped us in the chantry."

Cullen looks the mage up and down, frowning, until he lets out a grunt that could be interpreted as a friendly greeting if one was generous.

Dorian seems unperturbed. "Your spies will never get past Alexius and his magic without me. Lucky for you, I'm willing to help and will come along."

"Let's be quick then, I'd rather have this over with," Carver says. "Send an answer that I accept his invitation and will be there by tomorrow."

"I inform my spies," Leliana says.

Cullen gives a nod to Carver. "I get the troops ready, but there is another problem."

"What is it?"

"The former templars among our soldiers are running out of lyrium. I didn't think it was that dire but I've been informed that the supply is running low."

"Maferath's hairy arse," Carver mumbles under his breath. "Varric, anything on your guild connections?"

"It's all very touchy right now," Varric says. "But I know someone who might be able to get us lyrium quickly and without the merchant guild knowing about it. But I'll have to travel there myself."

"You'll need protection. Three of our soldiers at least." Carver turns to the new warden. "Warden Blackwall, would you travel with Varric? You might even know the area well."

"Just Blackwall, please, and sure," the bearded man says. "My pleasure."

Varric pulls a face. "Looks like a whole lot of riding again." He trots off, closely followed by Blackwall.

"Varric knows so many people," Merrill says quietly.

"Yes, I don't even know how he does it." He turns back to Cassandra, who looks at him with a thoughtful expression. "We should start moving small groups now, raise less suspicion."

"Yes," Cassandra agrees. "I'm sure we are being watched at all times."

Their arrival at Redcliffe has a very different feeling this time. Every gate and door opens easily for them but the very air feels hostile. Soldiers stand guard, their faces hidden under gleaming masks with protruding decorations on the side that remind Carver of elf ears. They all have a symbol of a snake and a dragon intertwined on their chests and the same symbol flies on the flags and banners all around them. Very few people are on the streets and the few they can see, look at Carver's group with careful smiles.

Merrill comes closer to his side. "They all look so scared."

"Yes," Carver says. "And I don't see any of the mages." He looks back over his shoulder at Cassandra and Vivienne. He wanted to take more people. Solas had insisted on coming along and had shown an unusual glimpse of anger at Carver's refusal. He wanted to take the Iron Bull, his giant battle axe a welcome reassurance at his back, but Leliana had advised against such a large group. It was likely that the magister would just refuse their entry if Carver came with a whole group of fighters at his side.

"Some of these soldiers are mages," Vivenne says quietly.

"At least me being accompanied by two mages shouldn't be a shock for a tevinter magister," Carver says. Three mages, if he counts Dorian, who is currently somewhere in the bowels of the castle with Leliana's agents.

Nobody stops them from entering the castle, guards letting them pass without a hint of recognition. At last two giant doors open as if by magic, which is probably what happens, and they enter the throne room. Two rows of stone columns, decorated with venatori banners and lit by torches, lead up to a podium with a throne at the far end of the hall.

Two guards step in front of them and a pale young man wants him to leave his friends behind. It takes little to change his mind and Carver is half convinced that it is Vivenne's deadly stare that makes the man falter and hurry back to the throne. He doesn't miss how the masked guards exchange a slight nod and follow them closely.

The pale man announces them. "My Lord Magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived."

Alexius rises from his throne when he sees them, a fake smile on his face. "My friend, so good to see you again. And your associates of course." His eyes linger on Merrill and Vivienne for a moment. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement that will be equitable to all parties."

Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter now reduced to an enslaved mage, steps out of the shadows. Her back is bowed and the red blush on her lips shines in stark contrast to her ashen skin.

Vivienne turns to her. "Oh darling, Fiona, you look dreadful. Are you getting enough sleep?"

Carver scowls at her. "Be nice."

Fiona ignores the remark and addresses Alexius. "Will we mages not have a voice in deciding our fate?"

The smile falls from Alexius' face. "Fiona. You would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives."

Merrill looks at Alexius as if she studies him. "I'm sure many people trust their lives to him," she says quietly but loud enough for Alexius to hear.

"Yes," Carver says, hiding his smile, "he has one of those trustworthy faces."

"The Magisterium tells me that so often," Alexius bellows from the podium. His smile is strained and changes into a self satisfied grin as he turns to sit down on the throne. Felix stands next to him, eyeing him warily. "Shall we begin our negotiations? You need mages to close the Breach and I have them. What do you offer in exchange?"

Carver shakes his head. "How about we cut the crap and you tell me why you want me killed?"

"I marvel that you decided to come here if you know that already." Alexius leans back in his chair, grinning at him.

"Father, he knows everything," Felix says and for once true pain shows on Alexius' face.

"My son, what have you done?"

Carver steps up to the podium. "Your trap won't trap anyone, I hope you don't mind."

"I have yet to see your cleverness, I'm afraid," Alexius says and stands up. "You walk into my stronghold, with your stolen mark — a gift you don't even understand — and you think you're in control?" He laughs out bitterly. "You're nothing but a mistake."

"Oh, a mistake?" Carver flexes his Herald-hand, letting the mark light up with green fire. "First of all, this is hardly _your_ stronghold, your men are dying or running as we speak. And unlike you, I'm not a thief, I didn't steal this mark."

"This mark doesn't belong to you!" Alexius yells. "It belongs to your betters, you wouldn't even begin to understand its purpose!"

"We have worked out well so far," Carver says, letting the column of green light dance in a circle.

Alexius stares at the light, transfixed.

"Father, listen to yourself," Felix says, grabbing his arm. "You know what you sound like?"

"He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche everyone expects us to be," Dorian says, stepping out from behind a column.

"Dorian," Alexius says, the one word dripping with disappointment and malice. "You could have been part of this, of history, but you turned me down."

"I have no interest in your history making."

"You don't know what you're talking about. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes."

Carver pounces on that name like a hungry mabari. "The Elder One. So that's who you serve. Is he responsible for all this? Is he a mage?"

"Soon he will become a god." Alexius' eyes are wide and unfocused. "He will make the world bow to mages once again. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Froze Seas."

Carver feels Merrill's hand in his and squeezes it. "Of course," he shouts, "that's what this is all about. Someone thinks the world owes him shit."

"You can't involve my people in this!" Fiona cries out.

"Alexius," Dorian says, visibly shaken. "This is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen! Why would you support this?"

Alexius turns away. Behind Carver and his friends, the first venatori guards drop in a clatter of armor as silent assassins slit their throats.

"Stop it, Father," Felix pleads. "Give up the venatori, let the southern mages fight the Breach and let's go home."

"No," Alexius says quietly. "It's the only way to save you. He will save you."

"Save me?"

"There is a way." Alexius turns away, wringing his hands. "The Elder One promised, if I undo the mistake at the temple — "

" — what mistake?" Carver interrupts but Alexius doesn't hear him.

Felix grabs him by the shoulders to turn him around. "I'm going to die, father, you need to accept that."

Alexius shakes him of an calls out into the room. "Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this man's life!"

The last three guards die with a gurgling scream as Leliana's agents slit their throats.

"Your men are dead, Alexius," Carver says and he can't hide his grin. For once, something seems to work out right.

Alexius stares at him. "You! You are a mistake. You never should have existed." He raises his hand and a green light that looks eerily familiar begins to shine on his palm. It forms into an amulet on a chain, spinning slowly.

"No!" Dorian calls out and throws a wave of magic against Alexius' hand. Carver pushes Merrill behind him and jumps forward to Dorian's side, holding his shield up to counter the attack that would be coming from Alexius.

But instead, a black and green vortex opens in front of them and fills his vision. The mark on Carver's hand crackles behind the shield, the light rising up and bending towards the portal. Just as Carver wonders why the light would do that, the vortex pulls him in and closes around him in absolute silence.


	21. Chapter 21

_This is the angst chapter, which is not my specialty. I did my best._

 _Warnings for Rite of Tranquility and character death in the alternative timeline._

* * *

The first thing he notices is the light being wrong.

Actually, the very first thing he notices is that his knees are getting wet and that two men run towards him with their swords raised high. He jumps up from his crouching position just as one goes up in flames. The other one more or less skewers himself on Carver's sword, mumbling something about "Blood of the Elder One". Foul smelling water hits his face when the body falls, the splash echoing against stone walls and then it is silent again.

An eerie grey light permeates everything, not even the yellow flames of the torches on the walls can change it to a warmer color. They are underground, in a dungeon or maybe a prison. It reminds Carver of the dungeons under the Gallows of Kirkwall, the cells where they locked up mages and templar traitors.

"Displacement?" Dorian says at his side, sounding more curious than shocked. "Interesting. Where did he send us? The next cluster of arcane energy?" He turns to Carver as if he expects him to answer. With no answer coming, he looks around again, scratching his chin. "Fascinating! It probably wasn't what Alexius intended." He crouches down, letting water run over his gloved hands.

The water looks oily and black in the strange light. Carver wonders where the light is even coming from, it seems the walls themselves cast out the green glow. He looks at the palm of his Herald-hand, willing the mark to shine. It sparks erratically and it takes some concentration to make it glow steadily. The mark has a different shade of green than the light coming from the walls and Carver is strangely glad about that. It feels like an important distinction.

"We were in the castle hall and then... it was like a rift but spinning," he says.

"The amulet Alexius used is the anchor for — oh!" Dorian stands up and points at the walls as if he sees them for the first time. "Not simply where, _when_! He displaced us in time!"

Carver stares at him until the message sinks in like a ball of dread in his stomach. "He moved us in time? Forward or backwards? And why?"

Dorian has an amused glint in his eyes. "Excellent questions, we shall find out, won't we?"

"Is this amusing for you?" Carver asks and he can't keep the menace from his voice. "Is it interesting? _Fasc-i-na-ting_? What about the others, what happened to them? Is that just fascinating?" He takes a step towards Dorian.

Dorian's face falls. "I'm sorry." He picks at a clasp on his jacket. "It's not, yes, I shouldn't... I tend to to make fun of... nevermind. It's not fascinating, I'm sorry."

Carver lets out a breath and turns away. "Andraste's arse. Why did he do this? Why — " his breath gets stuck in his throat. "Merrill." He whips around to Dorian again. "Do you think the others are here too?"

"I don't think the rift was large enough to pull more than us through. Alexius wouldn't have risked catching himself or Felix in it." Dorian takes his staff in hand and walks towards the gate where the unfortunate guards had come through. "Let's look around, find out where and when we are."

Carver holds his shield close to his chest, weighing his sword in the other hand and falls into step with Dorian. "What was the point of all this?"

"If I had to guess — I think he wanted to remove you from time completely. You never would have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and couldn't have interfered with whatever was supposed to happen there."

"Something with the Elder One, whoever that is."

"Probably a leader of the venatori, some magister playing with godhood. It's always the same old tune, 'Let's play with magic we don't understand and it'll make us incredible powerful.' I don't even want to _think_ what this does to the fabric of the world."

Carver snorts. "If this is an old tune, you shouldn't be surprised by the general bad opinion of tevinter mages."

"Yes, I grant you that one," Dorian says with a nod. "I countered his magic and it went wild. We didn't just travel through time, we punched a hole through it."

"Can we get back?" Carver holds his breath as they round a corner and come towards a row of cells on either side.

"I have thoughts on that. They're lovely little thoughts, like little jewels — "

"Please be serious," Carver says quietly.

"Sorry," Dorian says. "I know you're worried about your friends."

"And my girl." Carver almost can't say it out loud.

"The little elf who smiles?"

"Yes."

"We'll figure out a way," Dorian says and he almost sounds convincing.

The cells in this hallway are empty of life, except for some rats. A few steps take them up to another level, here the floor at least isn't flooded anymore. In a cell at the far end, someone is chanting, "Andraste blessed me, Andraste blessed me."

"Hello?" Carver says, but the man in the cell ignores him as if he isn't there. "Serah, can you hear me?" A huge crystal of red lyrium takes up half of his cell and seems to have grown around the bones and skulls of whoever has occupied this cell before the chanting man.

The young elven man peers through the bars of his cell but his eyes are blind. He keeps chanting, his mind locked away, unaware of anyone trying to talk to him.

"I know you," Carver says more to himself than to the elf. "I talked to you in the village."

"Carver," Dorian calls out, "over here." He stands in front of a cell that is almost entirely filled with a red lyrium crystal and in the middle is a person, leaning against the wall.

"Fiona?" Carver asks as he recognizes the small figure. "Is that really you?"

"You... you're alive? How? I saw you disappear..."

"Alexius sent us through time..." Carver stares at the mage in the cell. Golden veins pulse in the red lyrium, creeping into Fiona's skin. Carver looks closer at the part where she seems to be trapped in the crystal. "Is that.. is the lyrium growing on you?"

"In me," Fiona says, her voice shaking. "It takes over and feeds on you. And then one day, they harvest it."

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. "How could this happen? Can you tell us what date it is?"

"Harvestmere... 9:42 Dragon."

"Nine forty- _two_?" Dorian calls out. "We missed an entire year!"

A chill runs down Carver's spine. What could happen in one whole year? What did Merrill have to live through? "Do you know of the others? Where they are?"

Fiona shakes her head slowly. "I only know that your spymaster is here, they torture her." A sob shakes her and the red crystals on her body crackle. "Please, you must stop this from happening."

"We have to go back in time," Carver says, "none of this should have happened."

"If we find Alexius and the amulet," Dorian says, pinching his chin, "I should be able to recreate his spell and bring us back to our time."

"You must go," Fiona whimpers as a red crystal breaks through the skin on her side. "Hurry. Before the Elder One learns you're here."

They find Varric and Cassandra next, locked in cells, both not believing their eyes when they see him.

"Maker forgive me, I failed you. I failed everyone." Cassandra shakes her head. "The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life."

Carver glances at her and Varric. A red glow hangs on them like fog, the same red glow that fills their eyes. The red lyrium crystals don't yet grow out of their bodies but they are definitely infected. "We didn't die. Alexius sent us into the future."

"Junior," Varric says, "why does weird shit always happen to you?"

"I wish I knew." Carver takes another look at Varric's eyes. "You don't look so good, dwarf."

"Bite your tongue. I look damn good for a dead man."

Dorian turns back. "You're not dead."

Varric frowns. "The not dying version of this red stuff? Way worse, just saying."

They find Vivienne in another cell, composed and regal, even with the red glow of the poisoning lyrium around her. It takes a bit to convince her that they are real.

"You look..." Carver doesn't quite know how to end the sentence.

"Red lyrium, Darling." Vivienne says. "It's killing me. It's killing all of us. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

"What happened in the last year?" Carver asks.

"Since your death in the throne room, the Venatori assassinated Empress Celene. In the chaos that followed, they invaded Orlais."

Dorian shakes his head. "Alexius assassinated the Empress? Why?"

"No, not the point," Varric interrupts. "Alexius is just a servant. His 'Elder One' assassinated the empress and led a demon army in a huge invasion of the South. The Elder One rules everything. What's left of it, anyway. Alexius... is really not the one you need to worry about."

"Looks like I should find this Elder One and have a little chat."

Varric looks up to Carver, red fog dancing around his eyes. "Be careful what you wish for."

Vivenne grabs a staff from a pile of weapons as Cassadra and Varric pick out a sword and a crossbow. Vivienne lets the staff light up and shoots a vicious white light into the wall. "I would like to hurt something very badly right now." She turns to Carver. "Lead on. Anywhere is better than this place."

"Do you know of anybody else?" Carver looks from one to the other. "Anybody?"

"They took her first," Varric says quietly. "She fought so hard."

Cassandra turns to him. "We have not seen her. I don't know if she still lives."

Carver swallows hard against the pain in his chest. They climb up another level through empty dungeons. Blood is splattered on several walls and the blood has been used to draw geometrical patterns on the floor.

Cassandra stares at the symbols. "Andraste have mercy, bloodmagic."

The further they go into the dungeon, the more red lyrium crystals grow out of the walls. It looks like the red lyrium tries to cut off their way, making the hallways narrower.

"Don't touch that stuff," Varric says.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Carver steps around another red glowing wall towards stairs upwards. "Do you know where this leads?"

"There's several levels of these dungeons and different sections under the castle," Vivienne says. "At first, they had mages walk relatively freely. The venatori are much more trusting of mages than what I'm used to and I tried to use that to our advantage. I played along, mingled, tried to..." She sighs, hanging her head.

Cassandra puts her hand on Vivienne's shoulder. "They caught you when you opened my cell."

Vivienne inclines her head. "I am no spy, unfortunately."

"I'm grateful that you tried."

Carver opens the door to a platform with two bridges to the sides, stretching over an abyss that seems to go down endlessly. He takes a hurried step back from the edge, there is no railing, nothing that could stop one wrong step from being deadly. The two guards attacking them worry Carver less than the deadly chasm under his feet.

One of the guards runs towards Vivenne with an animalistic scream. "We get you now, mage, the ritual is starting, you'll be quiet soon, you'll — " the rest of his tirade dies in a scream as he burns up in a white flame.

The other guard falls quietly, his throat slashed as he tumbles over the edge of the platform and disappears into the darkness.

"What was he yelling about?" Carver asks Vivienne.

"The Rite of Tranquility," she says, calmly. "They've been threatening unruly mages with it for months now. Apparently, they didn't know how to execute the ritual or didn't have the necessary enchanted branding iron." She glances over to him. "The rite is not very common in the north and the venatori have other ways to control mages."

"So, there aren't many 'unruly mages'?"

Vivienne shakes her head. "No, I'm afraid not. Magical binds, bloodmagic, and red lyrium — without hope, not many had the strength to resist."

"But he said the ritual is starting now, there could be mages who..."

"Yes," Cassandra says, gripping her sword tighter. "It could be Merrill, if anybody resisted, it would be her."

"We have to stop it." Carver runs towards the nearest door. He throws it open and starts to run forward into another dungeon with red lyrium on the walls but Cassandra holds him back.

"Wait, let me check the other door." She runs across the platform and opens the other door. "Over here!"

Carver runs up to her. "How do you know?"

She looks at him with a frown. "There is something... like a hum or a scent..."

Dripping water and the occasional distant scream is all Carver can hear and he doesn't want to catalogue the smells. Cassandra walks ahead with secure steps and he hurries to catch up with her. "I think only you can sense this."

Vivienne clears her throat. "The Seekers found the rite and have the most experience with it."

That explanation is enough for now, but something has him wonder what exactly the Seekers know about the Rite of Tranquility.

The dungeon is empty, almost overgrown by red lyrium, corpses encased in it like in a morbid display case of red glass. They have to climb over a red lyrium boulder to reach the stairs and it burns like fire under the soles of Carver's feet.

Varric stomps on the lyrium with a disgusted sneer. "You're not getting me, filthy shit." He helps Vivienne over the obstacle, staring at the lyrium licking his boots in defiance.

"Doesn't it hurt?" Carver asks as he helps Varric down.

"Not anymore, Junior. At least not more than the usual death by Red does."

The stairs led up to an open hall, empty except for more overgrown corpses. The lyrium here looks brighter, the red glow hurts in Carver's eyes. There is a table next to a fire place, notes scattered on it.

"This must be a harvesting lab," Cassandra says. She stares at the bright lyrium, her hand stretching towards it.

"Where is the ritual?" Carver interrupts. Cassandra's gaze flickers, the red glow in her eyes turning oily. She blinks a few times and her eyes return to almost normal, red fog clinging to her the only evidence of the infection.

"This way." She runs out a door, leading them into a hallway. Armor is clanging as soldiers march into the room before them and then a chant begins. A circular pattern has been drawn on the ground in the center of the room and six soldiers stand around it with their swords held in front of their helmeted faces. Red crystals grow out of their arms shoulders, fused with the metal of their armor. Their armor used to be of templars but the symbol on their chest has been replaced.

They can't see what happens in the middle of the circle but a scream has Cassandra grab her sword tighter. "It's the ritual."

"Stop!" Carver yells and runs towards the circle. The red templars turn to him as one, their swords raised, when one in front rips his helmet off, his sword dropping to the ground.

"Carver," Cullen says. "It can't be." The red crystals on his shoulders cast an unsettling glow on his face as he stares at him.

Behind Cullen, a mage kneels on the ground, the branding iron hovering over her forehead as the knight says the chants. She turns to look at Carver and her mouth falls open in shock.

Merrill. A smile spreads across her face.

The knight speaks the last chant, the branding iron lights up in white glow, Carver storms forward, time slowing to a crawl as he screams. Cullen turns to run with him but falls to his knees, a sword sticking in his stomach, Carver strikes down the templar stepping in his way, the iron presses down and Merrill's scream dies.

"No!" Carver falls to his knees, catching Merrill as she sinks to the side, her mouth still open but silent. Around them, the other red templars fall to the attacks of his companions but Carver doesn't see it. The glow of the chantry sun on Merrill's forehead slowly fades to a dull red.

"No, no, no, no." Carver pulls her closer and draws his thump along the edge of the fresh mark.

Deathly calm settles over her features. "Carver." Her voice is serene and has lost all warmth and joy. "You were gone."

"Merrill," Carver sobs, the tears falling on her face. "Merrill, I'm so sorry."

Merrill's eyes study him with detached interest. "I thought you were dead."

Carver pulls her close and cries into her shoulder. As long as he doesn't see her dead eyes, he can still believe that everything will be all right, that nothing has changed his wonderful Merrill.

Varric kneels down beside him. "No. Not her. Maker damn them all."

Carver looks up to see his companions looking down on him, their eyes wide in shock. Movement at his side catches his eyes. Cullen struggles to sit up in a pool of his own blood and pulls the sword from his gut in one swift move. More blood gushes from the wound, turning his armor red.

"Carver, you're alive," he says with a brittle voice. The sword clutters to the ground. "If I had known..." He looks at Merrill in Carver's arms. "I should have protected her but I didn't. I followed orders. I failed you... I failed..." He sinks to the side and stills, the rest of his life dripping out of him in dull red.

"Shouldn't we help him?" Merrill sits back and looks over to where Cullen lies. There is no warmth in her voice.

"He's already dead, Daisy," Varric says.

Merrill turns to him, the same detached interest in her gaze as before. "Varric." She looks at the other companions. "Cassandra, Vivienne. Dorian. It is good that you're alive."

Vivienne holds out her hand to Merrill. "Can you stand my dear?"

"Yes." Merrill leans back and stands up, stepping out of Carver's embrace.

Varric puts a hand on Carver's arm. "Can you?"

For a moment he isn't sure. He wills his legs to work but they refuse. There's too much weight, too much to carry and not enough hope. Another sob has him shaking. He looks up to see Merrill holding her hand out to him. With the tears blurring his vision, the mark on her forehead almost isn't visible.

"Carver," Merrill says, her cold voice reminding him of what has been done to her. "We have to go, it's not safe here."

"Yes." He gets up with Varric's and Merrill's help, careful not to put too much weight on her. Her wrists are chafed bloody, cuts with dried blood mark her arms and she is painfully thin. The red fog wavers around her just like it does with the others.

Cassandra raises her hand, almost touching the mark on Merrill's forehead and then turns away. "Do you know where Leliana is held?"

"Yes, I can show you. I heard the guards talk about her, they fear her." Merrill starts walking towards a door on the other side of the room and Carver hurries to catch up with her.

Her magic is gone, she has no way to defend herself anymore.

Merrill leads them through another prison level. Even her walk is unnerving, her posture too straight, her gaze too straight ahead. No curiosity, no wonderment about little things. There is a weed growing in a crack, straining away from the red lyrium crystals and she doesn't see it. She walks in a world devoid of wonder and excitement and she just stands aside when guards attack them, just waiting for the fight to end.

Numbness has spread inside Carver. Whenever he looks at Merrill's impassive expression, something else inside of him dies. Every fight is just a set of motions, long practiced and repeated like an automaton.

When another guard with red glowing eyes falls before him, his face cut in half, Dorian comes up to him. He heals a cut on Carver's arm that he didn't even notice. "Carver, my friend, I'm very sorry but — "

"What?" Carver barks at him.

"I'm sorry for your pain and I'm horrified at what happened but I need you alert." Dorian takes a step back as if he expects Carver to attack him. "If you fall here, it will be the end of everything. But if we go back, none of this will happen."

Carver looks at Merrill and then back to Dorian and takes a deep breath. "You're right. I'm... I'll try."

"Please don't leave me behind," Merrill says, surprising him with her sudden appearance at his side.

Carver forces himself to look at her, to look into her dead eyes, fighting the pain threatening to overwhelm him. "I'm not going to."

Merrill nods. She waits for Carver to gather his things and then follows him up the stairs to another level. "I remember."

Carver misses a step and stumbles to keep his balance. "What do you remember?" The door opens to more red lyrium, locked rooms, and muffled screams.

"I remember I was sad. I cried a lot. I thought about you and it hurt like a wound."

Carver swallows against the lump in his throat. "And now?"

"I don't hurt like that. I don't know how." She looks up to Carver and for a moment her eyes seem to come alive. "It's all gone. But with you here, a part of me is still alive."

Carver searches her eyes for something, some familiarity but whatever life was there, it is gone. Pain screams in his chest and he bites down on it, covers it under a layer of despair and makes room for anger. He readies his shield. "Stay behind me and don't get hurt."

Varric throws him a nod and lines himself up behind him and Merrill, promising to protect her as well. Cassandra takes up her familiar position at his side, Vivienne and Dorian stay behind them. The next group of guards fall to their deaths before they can scream.

Yelling leads them to an unguarded door. Someone inside shouts, "You will break!" and Carver recognises Leliana's voice as she answers, "I will die first."

Carver kicks the door open and runs in. Leliana's arms are tied to the ceiling but when she recognizes him, she wraps her legs around the torturers neck and snarls, "Or you will."

The man gurgles until his neck breaks. Carver hurries over to cut her off and carries her to a bench to sit her down. She looks like she's aged fifty years, her skin grey and carved by deep wrinkles. Dorian starts a lengthy explanation as to how they got here but she interrupts him and stands up with surprising strength.

"And mages always wonder why people fear them... No one should have this power."

Dorian raises his hands. "It's dangerous and unpredictable, yes, but before the Breach, nothing we did — "

Leliana's hand cuts through the air. "Enough! This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffers. It is real." She looks at Merrill and the mark on her forehead. "Some have suffered so much that they would envy her for her inability to feel this pain."

Carver looks away to hide the tears in his eyes. "We have to find Alexius to get back."

"The guards spoke of his room," Merrill says quietly. "He locked himself inside."

Leliana nods and picks up a bow from a pile in the corner. "It must be on the other side of the castle, through the courtyard." She doesn't look behind as she strides out of the cell.

As they step into the courtyard, the hair on the back of Carver's neck stand up. "There's a rift... holy Maker, is that the Breach?" He stares up to the sky. What used to be a hole in the sky in their time, now stretches across the whole sky, as far as he can see. There is no sunshine, only the green light from the breach. Rocks and statues are floating in the sky, drawn to the spinning maw above.

Varric shakes his head. "The whole sky is the Breach now."

"This grew in just one year?"

"And rifts all over the place too."

Carver adjusts his grip on his sword. "There's several rifts near by."

Dorian nods towards his Herald-hand. "The mark should still work here."

The demons rising from the rifts are strong and aggressive but Cassandra, Vivienne and Varric have not lost their abilities and Dorian and Leliana quickly fit in. Merrill stays to the side, hiding behind cover whenever they get attacked. Even if she can't feel emotional pain, she feels physical pain and she aims to avoid it.

Carver glances at Merrill and replaces his pain of seeing her like this with anger. Soon, his rage fuels him to hit harder, faster and he rips every rift apart with all the power he can give. At some point, Varric has to urge him to use a health potion so that he doesn't stumble from exhaustion.

Vivienne comes to his side and looks over to Merrill. "I'm sorry. It's not right."

Carver laughs out bitterly. "Didn't we have this conversation before?"

Vivienne lowers her head. "I did not see."

"Well, if we're successful, you'll never need to." Carver turns away from her, his voice fading as pain chokes him.

They enter the royal living rooms and ball rooms on the other side of the courtyard. The castle is trashed, the roof caved in, and red lyrium is growing from the walls. What they find from the people who lived here or took over the rooms, are notes of fear and snarling optimism turned into despair and hopelessness.

The trail of destruction leads them to the locked doors of the main hall. The path is familiar, they came this way when they entered the castle, today and also one year ago. But the doors to the throne hall remain closed. The pattern on the doors lights up as they approach, the light crawling through the lines from the bottom to the top.

"How did he even find this? He must be so paranoid," Dorian says as he hovers his palm over the pattern, casting his own magic onto it. "This is ancient, possibly elvhen."

"Can you open it?" Carver asks.

"There must be a key for the servants, he has to eat after all." Dorian traces the pattern again and then pulls his hand away as if it burns. "A key with lyrium enchantments would be my guess."

"Where in the void can we get this now, here?"

"Lyrium enchantment are dangerous," Vivienne says.

Merrill turns to her. "Not for me."

Carver forces himself to look at her, to bear the blankness of her gaze. "Could you draw the enchantments if we find the key?"

"Yes."

Carver digs into the bag at his belt and pulls out an uneven but deliberately formed stone. "Dorian, does this look like an elven key?"

Dorian takes the piece and holds it up. "My friend, I have a new appreciation for all the shit you keep collecting. Now we just need to — "

Merrill holds a splinter of red lyrium in her hand and holds the other out to Dorian. He gives her the stone and she traces the runic patterns on the stone with the glowing crystal in her hand. It lights up and pulses. No pride shows on Merrill's face for what she accomplished, as she holds the stone out to Dorian.

Dorian points to the center of the doors. "Put it right here."

The pattern lights up with a hum and the doors swing open.

They enter the throne room, the familiar columns leading them forward to a lone figure standing bowed over the empty throne, holding himself up on the arm rests. Next to him a frail human lies more than sits on the floor and looks at them with eyes so deeply sunken in that they are invisible.

"I knew you would appear again, not when, but I knew I didn't destroy you." Alexius pushes himself off the throne and turns around. There's no red fog clinging to him but despair clings to him just the same. "My final failure."

"Was it worth it, what ever you tried to achieve?" Carver yells at him. "All this suffering, was it worth it?"

"I doesn't matter," Alexius says. "We can all just wait for the end now."

"What did you do?" Dorian asks.

Carver steps forward. "What's ending?

Alexius lets out a chuckle. "The irony that you should appear _now,_ of all the possibilities. After all that I fought for, all that I have betrayed and now, what have I wrought? Ruin and death."

"Spare me the theatrics," Carver spits out. He glances at Merrill, how she looks impassively at the scene and he winces at the pain in his chest. Everything that made her, her love, her curiosity, her empathy, it's all gone and he just wants to wake from this nightmare and never see her like this again.

Alexius shakes his head. "There is nothing to hope for. The Elder One comes, for you and me, he's coming for all of us."

Leliana rushes to the person huddled on the ground and pulls him up, holding a knife to his throat. "Enough!"

The man looks like a corpse, grey skin stretched over bones and eyes rolled back in his head.

"No," Alexius cries, "Felix!"

"That's Felix?" Dorian runs forward and stares at the skeletal man. "Maker's breath Alexius, what have you done?"

"He would have died!" Alexius cries out. "I saved him."

"That's not saving him," Carver says, "that's condemning him."

"Please don't hurt my son, I'll do anything."

Leliana snarls at him. "You can do nothing." Fixing her eyes on Alexius, she draws the knife across his son's throat and let's the dying man drop.

"No!" Alexius stumbles forward to catch his son in his arms but he is too late. His grief quickly transforms into anger, a rift opens in the middle of the room and demons once again rise from the ground.

They scramble to get back into a secure formation, hindered by Alexius turning invisible and reappearing at different spots of the room. His spells hit Cassandra and Leliana in the back before Varric gets him with a bolt that seems to make it more difficult for him to stealth himself. Rushing after the flickering shape of Alexius, Carver desperately searches for Merrill, to make sure she is safe.

At last he spots her, hidden behind the throne. Just in that moment, Alexius runs up towards her, a spell singing in his hands and Carver runs faster than he ever has. His shield drops from his hand, light shoots from his Herald-hand and it hits Alexius like a lightning bolt and reflects into the rift. He whips around, snarling at Carver, the ball of light in his hand spitting and hissing and Carver jumps up the last step and plunges his sword into Alexius' chest.

Blood hits Merrill in the face but she doesn't flinch. Carver turns around and closes the rift before he collapses against the throne. The remaining demons fall to ashes and silence stretches out in the hall.

Dorian kneels down beside Alexius' corpse. "He wanted to die, didn't he? All his lies and justifications."

Carver sighs. "I know he was someone important for you once but really, you can do much better, trust me."

"Once he was a man to whom I compared all others. Sad, isn't it?"

Carver pushes himself off the floor and walks over to Dorian. "Well, in my experience, idolization is seldom a good idea and most people can't live up to it." He kneels down and removes the amulet from Alexius' neck and hands it to Dorian. "Will this work?"

Dorian nods. "Give me an hour and I should be able to rework the spell and — "

Lelaina steps up to them, her deeply sunken eyes staring in unsettling red. "An hour? No, you cannot wait, you must go now."

The ground begins to shake and a shrieking sound seems to permeate the air. Decoration crumbles from the columns and dust and rubble falls from the ceiling.

"The Elder One," Leliana whispers, looking scared for the first time.

"You have to hurry, Junior," Varric says. "This... this is bad." He exchanges a look with Cassandra and then looks at Vivienne until she nods too. "We'll hold the main door. Once they're through, it's all on you Nightingale."

"No," Carver calls out, "I can't let you sacrifice yourselves."

"Look at us!" Leliana says. "We're already dead. The only way we can live is if this day never comes."

Merrill's voice comes from the back. "Please go, Carver. Don't let this be the true world."

Carver looks at Merrill and then nods at Dorian. With the amulet in his hand, Dorian steps up to the throne and lets the amulet float in front of him in a green light, his mouth forming words.

Cassandra, Varric and Vivienne walk towards the main doors, their weapons ready.

At the door, Vivienne turns to Carver. "Herald, please make sure that I see." She steps into the hallway and the door closes behind her.

"Cast your spell," Leliana says. "You have as much time as I have arrows." She steps inf ront of the doors, arrow and bow in her hands. As the sound of fighting becomes louder on the other side of the door, she begins to chant. "Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame."

The door breaks down, Varric's lifeless body is tossed inside. Red templars and terror demons stalk inside on spindly legs and the first fall to Leliana's arrows. She keeps on chanting as she fires arrow after arrow. "Andraste guide me. Maker, take me to your side."

Carver watches as she keeps shooting until an arrow hits herself and she stumbles backwards. He starts to run towards her but Dorian holds him back.

"You move, and we'll all die!"

Out of arrows, Leliana now hits the attacking templars with her bow until one grabs her from behind and chokes her. Behind Dorian, the green spinning vortex opens, slowly widening. Carver turns to Merrill, who watches them without emotion. He tries to find words to say. Leliana cries out and he sees her fall to the ground. Just as Dorian pulls him towards the vortex, an arrow flies towards him, aimed for his heart.

He sees the arrow fly towards its target, too fast to step out of the way. But then Merrill steps in front of him, gasping as the arrow pierces her back and she falls into Carver's arms.

"No!" Carver holds her frail body up, blood quickly seeping through her clothes.

"Carver, now!" Dorian yells, holding out his hand.

"Go," Merrill whispers, "go, vhenan."

Carver lets her fall from his arms and Dorian pulls him into the silence of the portal as he sees her head hitting the ground. Her blood sticks to his hands.


	22. Chapter 22

Carver stumbles out of the vortex, sound returning like a fist to his ears. The sight of the throne room wobbles in front of his eyes. Cassandra has her sword raised high, Merrill and Vivienne point their staffs at Alexius and everyone looks confused at Carver and Dorian. They must have been gone for just a moment, just long enough for everyone to react and now they reappeared, dirt and blood all over them. It's probably very confusing but Carver can't spare a thought for that.

"Merrill." He darts forward, not caring for anything else. He drops his sword, falls to his knees in front of her and wraps his arms around her waist. "Maker's breath, Merrill." He raises his hand and strokes over her forehead, unmarred and smooth.

"Carver?" She strokes over his hair. "Vhenan? What's wrong?"

Carver presses his cheek against her stomach and just breathes. Merrill is alive, and no sun burns on her forehead. "Andraste be blessed, you're all right." He hasn't prayed much in his life but now it's all he can do.

Merrill strokes over his head, a slight smile on her face.

Dorian, accepting that Carver won't pay attention any time soon, turns to Alexius. "You'll have to do better than that."

Alexius sighs. "Let's end this charade then."

The Inquisition guards lead Alexius away, he doesn't resist. He looks to his son, his pain visible on his face. "But you'll die," the old man says to his son.

"Everyone dies," Felix murmurs and follows his father and the guards out of the hall.

Dorian brushes his coat down, wrinkling his nose at the blood stains in the fabric. "Well, I'm glad that's over with."

Two rows of soldiers in golden armor stomp into the throne hall in perfect sync, align themselves to the sides and loudly click their heels.

"Or not?" Dorian steps down to Carver, still on his knees, holding on to Merrill, and clears his throat. "I get the feeling something important is about to happen."

Carver reluctantly lets go of Merrill and stands up but he snatches her hand and has no intention of letting go for the next few days. A redheaded man in fur-trimmed leather walks up to them. He looks so casual, that Carver only recognises him as the King when he begins to speak.

"Grand Enchanter Fiona, imagine how surprised I was to learn that you'd given Redcliffe Castle to a tevinter magister."

Fiona wrings her hand and attempts to bow at the same time as she walks towards the king, almost tripping over her feet. "King Alistair."

"Especially since I'm fairly sure Redcliffe belongs to Arl Teagan."

"Your majesty, we never intended..." Fiona seems to shrink to a mouse as she fidgets in front of the king.

"I know what you intended and I wanted to help you," King Alistair says. He looks like he genuinely cares. "But now? Now you've made it impossible." He shakes his head and then fixes Fiona with a hard stare. His voice is louder when he announces: "You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden."

"But... but, we have hundreds," Fiona pleads. "Where will we go?"

Cassandra steps forward and scowls at Fiona. "The Inquisition is willing to conscript the mages for closing the Breach."

"No." Carver's voice is shaky but he clears his throat and projects his voice towards Cassandra. "I came here to ask the mages for help, not to force them into servitude." He glares at Cassandra until she looks away and then turns back to Fiona. "The Inquisition offers you a home with us and we ask you to work with us to close the Breach. We're looking for allies, not prisoners."

Dorian looks from the king to Carver and then to Fiona with amused interest. "Not like you have many options but I think the Inquisition sounds quite nice actually."

Fiona looks to Carver and a slow smile spreads on her face, making her look much younger. "Then we will gladly join the Inquisition and those of us who are capable, will fight with you to close the Breach."

"Welcome to the Inquisition." Carver extends his hand to Fiona and shakes it, aware of the critical glares around them. He turns to the king and bows his head. "Your Highness, please allow us time to move all these people to Haven."

The king makes a dismissive gesture. "Closing the Breach is in everyone's interest, I'm not going to throw a fuss now, take all the time you need. Just get them out of Redcliffe and out of my sight."

* * *

Carver isn't sure what he expected but it isn't this. The rebel mages are as far removed from the raging mad maleficars that everyone was warning him about, as a halla is from a nug. Very few of them look like they have actual battle experience, most of the mages look like displaced librarians and a lot of them are just children.

Fiona had not exaggerated when she spoke of 'hundreds'. Carver counts at least three hundred heads and the tail end of their procession hasn't even passed the Redcliffe city gate yet. It's not only the rebel mages, a good bunch of people from Redcliffe decided to join the Inquisition. "How are we going to feed all these people?" Carver wonders out loud.

"Josephine is already writing letters to ask for support from the Trevelyan family, and I think Cassandra is also writing home," Cullen says next to him. He shakes his head. "So many mages. This will be dangerous, we need more templars— "

"They're mages, not walking bombs." Carver points down to the cluster of children currently running around, weaving in and out of the trek. "Look at them, they're just people."

"There will be abominations, we need to be able to control— "

"No!" Carver interrupts him. "We're not going to enforce old templar law again."

"I know, but with the veil so thin..."

"No." Heat rises up Carver's neck and dark spots blink in his vision. "Call the others and Fiona too, we're having a conversation right now."

"But— "

"Right now." Carver stomps towards one of the slow rolling wagons and hides behind it. He doesn't want Cullen to see how his hands are shaking. His throat feels dry like sand and not even drinking water helps against it.

Soft steps on the grass have him take a few calming breaths before he faces Merrill.

"What's wrong, vhenan?"

Carver takes her hand in his and lets her presence calm him. "I have to tell the others about what we saw. I want you to be there too."

Merrill watches him. "It was very bad?"

Carver can just nod.

The meeting is held at a slow walking pace next to a nicer carriage, with Josphine sitting on the coach bench to take notes on her clipboard. Carver starts from when the vortex spit them out in the dungeon and keeps his tale as factual and rational as he can. The less he lets himself feel the terror and despair, the easier it is to talk about it. Dorian occasionally adds something to Carver's description and the others interrupt with questions at first. But the longer Carver speaks, the less questions they ask and a look of horror spreads on their faces.

When Carver finishes with their magical return to the throne room, everyone is silent for a while.

Josephine looks over her notes and shakes her head. "The Empress, assassinated, Orlais fallen to a demon army. It's almost impossible to imagine."

"Red lyrium growing in people," Cassandra says with a shudder.

Carver looks around. "Speaking of red lyrium, where is Varric?"

"On the way to get lyrium, the blue kind, don't you remember?" Cullen says.

"Right," Carver says. "Send a patrol after him, if he got caught in the bad future, he might run into an ambush right now."

Cullen hesitates. "We have precious few soldiers and templars as it is and with all the mages..."

"The mages will be fine." Carver glares at Cullen until he nods.

"I'll send three of my best after him."

"All right." Carver squares his shoulder and looks at his advisors one after the other. "Our problems have changed. This is not a mage-templar conflict and this is not about just the Breach either. Our problem is this Elder One. We need to know who he is and what his plans are."

Cullen clears his throat and pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket. "Knight Barris, who we met in Val Royeaux if you remember, managed to get a note to me through Leliana's agents. In it he writes that Lord Seeker Lucius has moved the loyal templars to Therinfal Redoubt and that he is concerned about the state of the order. Strange things are happening in that fortress. Towards the end of his letter, he mentions the Lord Seeker speaking of an Elder One."

"I think this is something for your agents," Carver says to Leliana. She has been very quiet as Carver told of her fate in the bad future.

"Yes," she says. Her face is hidden under her cowl but her voice is not quite steady. "I'll contact them."

"Once we're in Haven, we have to prepare for a war," Carver says. "King Alistair has allowed us to stay in Haven but we're even more of a target now. More refugees will come and with them people who don't have our best interest in mind."

"The Herald siding with the mages will cause some of our supporters to withdraw their help," Josephine says with an apologetic shrug.

"Convince them that this is about something bigger." Carver lets the mark in his Herald-hand light up and looks towards the slow spinning maw of the Breach in the sky. "We're way past a mage-templar problem."

Josephine nods. "If that is all, I have many letters to write. Leliana, I'll need your fastest ravens."

Leliana nods and then looks to Carver.

"Ehm..." Carver looks around. Everybody watches him. "Meeting adjourned?" That seems to be what they were waiting for and Carver lets out a slow breath. Sometimes it's still quiet strange to be the leader here.

Merrill walks quietly at his side, watching him with a frown.

"I'm..." Carver sees Cullen walk away. "I'll be right back," he says to Merrill and runs after him. "Cullen!"

"Yes?"

"A word..." The trek of refugees and mages flows steadily around them. Carver gestures to Cullen to follow him and climbs up a small canyon in the side of a hill. It will protect them from curious ears. Before he can open his mouth, Cullen starts as if he has been holding back for too long.

"This was a mistake, we should be getting the templars, at least they're trained soldiers."

"Oh please, what do you think templars can do? A Cleansing Wave or a Smite don't work against rifts, I know, I tried."

"And instead we have hundreds of mages? What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?" Cullen rants. "The veil is torn open!"

"Turning mages loose? You're still on that?"

"They could do as much damage as the demons. There will be abominations among them and we must — "

"Listen to me," Carver says, keeping his voice quiet. Something must show on his face because Cullen snaps his mouth shut and swallows hard. "In the bad future, when Merrill was made tranquil, _you_ took her there."

All color leaves Cullen's face.

Carver presses on, driving the knife in. "Only when you saw me, when you knew I was alive, did you try to stop them. Not before, not when you saw Merrill and knew what would happen to her. Another templar killed you and the last thing you said was 'I should have protected her but I didn't. I followed orders. I failed you'. That's what you said."

Cullen stares at him in horror.

"You followed orders," Carver says, a vicious bite in his voice. "Like the good little templar you are, once again, you did what they told you."

"Carver, I — "

"No, fucking _listen_ for once! You said you wanted to change, you didn't want to be that person anymore, not like in Kirkwall. But just saying that isn't gonna do a Maker damned thing."

Cullen seems to sink in on himself, as if all air left his body. "You don't know... Kinloch..."

"I think I know enough," Carver says. "There's good mages and bad mages, just like there's good people and bad people everywhere." He sighs, putting his hand on Cullen's shoulder. "You can't go on like this. Maker's arse, _we_ can't go on like this, with all this fear and hatred among us."

Cullen shakes his head. "What can I do? How can I forget all of that?"

"You can't just forget, you have to want to change. For real," Carver says. "I'm putting you in charge of training the mages. You and our templars, you will work _with_ the mages, practice battle formations, strategies. Together." He fixes Cullen with a stare. "There will be no templars watching over the mages as if they're explosive cattle. We are the Inquisition now, and by Andraste's soggy knickers, we will work _together,_ is that clear?"

Cullen nods, straightening his back. "Very clear."

"Good. And once we're in Haven, we're destroying the phylacteries in the chantry." Carver watches the emotions flicker over Cullen's face until he nods.

"I'm not going to fail you." He lets out a breath and looks at Carver. "'Herald of Andraste says: cut your shit out and work together.' I remember that." He rubs his neck and gives Carver a weak smile. "You've been trying to get that into my head for a long time now."

"I know this is hard," Carver says. "There will be resistance among our templars."

"I promise I won't fail you." Cullen straightens his back. "And I'm sorry for what happened in the bad future."

"Well, it didn't happen, thanks to Dorian. But thinking about all of that is really doing my head in." Carver presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "And I lost my shield there. Will have lost my shield. Have lost my shield that I will lose in a not happening future..."

"Please stop," Cullen pleads, "you're giving me a headache."

They rejoin the inquisition trek and Carver sets out to tackle his next task. Merrill follows him quietly as he searches among the people until he finds Clemence, the tranquil. He walks next to a cart with the sick templars he has been taking care of. They have received a dose of lyrium to help against the worst symptoms, but as Solas has predicted, the long withdrawal has taken a terrible toll on their bodies. Only the third templar looks relatively healthy and she is strong enough to help pull the cart.

After a short discussion, Clemence agrees to follow him to a wagon, where Vivienne is visible from afar with her staff held high. The only other mages Carver has ever seen who carry themselves as proudly or careless like that, are Merrill and Marian. Even Bethany was always careful to blend in and hide her mageness. The mages around Vivienne have that familiar hushed look about them, their staffs short and inconspicuous. They whisper among themselves and occasionally ask her questions.

"Lady Vivienne," Carver says. "A word."

"Certainly, Herald." She gestures to her admirers and the crowd scatters like a flock of scared birds. "What can I do for you?"

"In the bad future, seeing Merrill get turned tranquil shocked you. You told me that you did not see."

There is only a hint of reaction on Vivienne's face. "What do you mean?"

Carver looks her in the eyes. "When you left Dorian and me to defend the door you said to me that I should make sure that you _see_."

Vivienne lets her gaze travel over to the Breach. "How cryptic of me."

"Oh, I don't think you were cryptic," Carver says. He takes a step to the side and gestures towards Clemence. "This is Clemence, as you can see he's one of the tranquil."

Vivienne gives a nod towards Clemence, which he returns.

"As far as I know," Carver says, "First Enchanters are asked if a mage should be made tranquil, so you should be familiar with the concept. But I don't think you quite realize what it means."

Vivienne's eyes widen but she doesn't say a word.

"There's more tranquil in Haven and they need protection and something useful to do." Carver fixes Vivienne with a stare. "I want you to take care of them, make sure they are respected and treated with kindness and that their abilities are put to use only if they agree to it."

Vivienne inclines her head. "Herald, my dear, I must respectfully— "

"I don't give a nug's shit about your 'respectfully'," Carver interrupts her. "You told me to make you see and by Andraste's teeth, I'm _making_ you see."

There is a pause before Vivienne nods, slowly. "I understand."

"Good. You're in charge of the well being of the tranquil of the Inquisition."

"It will be my honor." She turns to Clemence. "Please tell me of your abilities."

Carver gives Vivienne one last look and then leaves her alone with Clemence. He slows his steps, aware of Merrill walking at his side as the trek of people flows around them. Her hand finds his and she gently guides him to the side, away from the ebbing and flowing of bodies.

The stream of people walking by becomes a constant murmur that his mind soon ignores in the noise around them. Occasionally a child yelling or someone laughing has him look up from the gravel and rocks and bushels of grass under his feet. The weather is on their side, sunshine and a gentle breeze making for a comfortable way of travel. The scent of wild flowers mixes with the smell of rotting ponds and dried out river beds. A weight seems to glide off Carver's shoulders the longer he walks and just breathes in the stories the air tells him. It tastes of memories, of a boy holding hands with his twin sister, running after his older sister, of chasing lightning balls and butterflies made of flicks of fire.

"Bears! Bears!"

The warning cry wakes him from his daydreams and he grabs his sword. Merrill lights up with a swirling light around her, casting a barrier far ahead of herself towards the men running from the bears. Soldiers and mages break from the trek and run towards the first bear breaking from the woods, followed by at least four more bears. Carver sees Cullen and Dorian rushing towards the commotion, sword and staff raised high.

Merrill breaks out to the side and Carver follows her, attacking another bear who silently comes for their flank. He misses his shield. Merrill keeps a barrier raised around them, as long as he stays close to her, he is relatively safe from stray attacks on his sides but he still has to dance forward and backwards to get his hits in and jump out of the way of sharp claws striking at him.

The roar of the bear drowns out the rush of blood in his ears. The animal smells of wet fur and blood, injuries covering its sides. Icicles from Merrill's spells burrow into the animal and arrows hit it from afar, but still the bear roars and jumps forward with surprising speed. A wall of air hits Carver and pushes him out of the way, the sound of claws aimed for his head cutting through empty air where he had been standing just a moment ago. Carver spins around and adjusts his grip, holding his sword like a knife, and stabs into the bear's shoulder, using his weight to push the sword deep into the animal.

The bear whines, air leaving the hole in his side in a wet gush and he falls down, narrowly missing Carver. The body still gives off heat but it's already dying. The head has crushed a bushel of lilac flowers when it fell, spreading a sweet scent like a potion under the smell of wet fur. He pulls his sword out of the flesh, listening to the last few breaths the animal takes, watching as the life disappears from its eyes.

Another life gone.

The cries of battle have died down, the trek successfully defended. Already the animals get skinned, the fur laid out over wagons and the heaps of meat are skillfully cut into pieces. Baskets and leather bags are used to store the meat with salt and vinegar for longer keeping, other pieces get wrapped in cloth with magic ice for a later meal. Someone prepares a barrel on wheels with firewood, as an oven for smoking. A mage starts the fire and soon smoke creeps out of the barrel's lid.

Scouts secure the area, looking for more predators attracted by the smell of blood and meat. These people have lived through hard times long enough, they know how to use this rare gift, that will feed this trek for a few days.

Carver still has his sword in his hand, the blood on it drying in brown streaks. The mark in his hand is hissing, reacting to something. He tries to feel for a rift but there is no hum, no feeling of electrical static. But he has to stay vigilant, he has to be prepared. Any moment, another animal could attack, or red templars or even just normal people who fear mages and the Inquisition. How safe can they ever be?

Children run passed him, using knives and magic to skin the bear he felled. They laugh, telling each other wild stories of the last time they had so much meat. Carver can't hear the forest anymore, he can't hear new danger approach, he —

"Vhenan?"

He starts walking, away from the bear carcasses, the children, the people, the trek, the smoke.

"Where are we going?" Merrill asks.

"We have to watch out, we have to be careful, we don't know what can happen, so many people, we aren't prepared, we — "

"Carver," Merrill calls after him.

"We have to be more alert," Carver says to her, "we weren't even prepared for these bears and there could be templars around, like we saw, with red lyrium." Her can't stop walking, his feet moving him in circles around Merrill. "We have no defenses, these mages aren't even trained for battle spells, and we don't know what else is in these woods..." Black spots swim in his vision. The murmur of the slow moving trek is a loud drone, it grates in his ear. He wouldn't even hear if a red templar approached, but he has to know, he has to be more alert.

"Carver, stop." Merrill grabs his arm, but he has to keep walking, he has to go, he has to watch out, he has to be alert but it's so loud, so many people, they make so much noise.

"It's too loud, they have to be quiet."

Merrill wraps her arms around him and only now he notices that he's shaking. "Too loud, so many people..."

"I know, Vhenan," Merrill says quietly, "let's sit down for a moment."

Carver collapses on a bushel of grass and presses his hands to his ears. But it's still too loud.

"Herald?" Cassandra approaches with Leliana. "What's wrong?"

"It's so loud — "

"But... it's not?" Cassandra looks confused.

"I take care of him," Merrill says. "He just needs a little break."

"But Herald," Cassandra says with a cough, attempting to step past Merrill, "Lady Josephine needs — "

"You will leave us now!" Merrill's voice is like a thunderous storm and in Carver's swimming vision, she looks like a dragon towering over the other two women. Which surely is impossible.

"But—"

"Leave!"

Carver doesn't see them leave but Merrill turns back and sits down next to him. A shimmering wall of magic rises up around them and closes over their heads. It reminds him of the circle of light in the Fade, when he met Merrill in their dream. The wall of light blocks the noise from the outside and the world outside of it looks soft and dreamlike.

Carver is still shaking. "I can't just sit here, I have to— "

"No." Merrill takes his hand and waits for him to look at her. "You're burning up. You take all the worry and all the bad memories and turn them over and over. They eat at you. You have to let go."

"But I have to—"

"No." Merrill's voice is soft but allows no protest. "You have to breathe."

"I know _that_."

"Shh." Merrill puts her hands on his cheeks and forces him to look at her. Her eyes are like piercing green jewels, holding his gaze. "Breathe with me."

She takes a deep breath and holds it. Carver does the same and when she blows the air out again, he does the same. She does it again, breathing in, holding, and then blowing the air out and as Carver blows air through his lips, some tight knot in his chest seems to untangle.

"What is happening?" he whispers. He breathes in deep, taking in the scents of grass and Merrill. There's still spots dancing in front of his eyes but they slowly fade.

Merrill let's go of his face and puts her hand on his back, rubbing soft circles between his shoulder blades. "Lean forward. You're having a panic attack, Vhenan. We're taking a little break here, we'll catch up with the others later."

His hands are still trembling. "This shouldn't happen to me, I have to be stronger."

"Carver." Merrill puts her hand under his chin and makes him look at her. "You can't be strong all the time without being weak sometimes. It's a balance."

"But — "

"Shh. None of that." Her thumb strokes the corner of his lips. "I'm here, Vhenan."

And that — finally — makes everything right again.


	23. Chapter 23

Carver turns his horse around on top of a mountain ridge and looks back at the area they've just left. The Fallow Mire disappears into the darkness at the horizon, covered with forever raining clouds. On the other side of this mountain ridge, the land is green again, even sunny at spots; swamps, rocks and gravel giving way for lush grass and tall trees. Some spots here and there show the blackness of Blight sickness but it still looks more inviting than the miserable wet bog they just left behind.

"Why, in the name of Andraste's dirty knickers, does anyone want to live there?" Varric says, steering the wagon carefully along the narrow path.

After his rescue from bandits and a panicked horse, Varric refuses to ride any more horses and has decided to become an expert in driving a wagon. Tuffel, the pony, and Varric have developed a respectful friendship over the days since they left the trek to answer a message from the Fallow Mire.

"People live in the strangest places," Merrill says, petting her giant horse. "My clan never understood why I decided to live in Kirkwall."

"Granted," Varric says, "many people in Kirkwall keep asking themselves the same thing."

"Do you miss it?"

"Kirkwall? Well..." Varric looks towards the northern horizon as if his gaze could cover the distance over all of Ferelden towards the Waking Sea. "I definitely miss city life, I could kill for a fresh drawn ale or a nice apple pastry from the market."

Dorian arrives at the hilltop on an elegant black horse that looks into the landscape as if the wind itself is a personal insult to her. Dorian slings a colorful shawl tighter around his neck. "I would kill for a sedan carrying me over these dreadful mountains."

Carver narrows his eyes at him. "A sedan carried by slaves?"

Dorian looks startled, "Oh, I..."

"Elven slaves?" Merrill asks with something that is not quite a smile. Rather the very opposite of a smile. She turns her giant horse around and Dorian's mare throws her head back and takes a step back, feeling just as threatened as her rider.

"I... yes, probably not something I should wish for," Dorian mumbles.

Varric nods. "Probably. We kind of know a thing or two about life as a slave in Tevinter and I don't think it gains you any favours in this group."

"No it won't," Carver says. "And there won't be slaves in the Inquisition either. Ever."

"Yes, got it." Dorian nods and steers his nervous horse away. He doesn't look back but pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders.

"Do you think he'll stay?" Carver wonders when Dorian has moved away.

Varric shrugs his shoulders but Merrill answers first. "I think he really wants to help. He left his family, his friends, his whole life behind, that's not easy." She looks after Dorian. "It's not easy to start your life anew when you don't know the rules of the place."

Of course, Merrill would know about such a thing, Carver realizes. She left her clan, her life among the dalish to live in Kirkwall, not knowing anything about the city. If anybody knows how it is to feel lost in a strange world, it's her.

"I'm gonna talk to him," Merrill says and convinces her horse to follow Dorian. How she manages that special feat is a mystery because she doesn't even hold the reins of the beast.

Merrill's horse is a rightful giant and has thrown off many experienced riders but she gracefully allows Merrill to ride her. It doesn't look like Merrill is steering her much though, it seems to be more a kind of mutual agreement of deciding on a general direction to go and the beast then takes the path she likes. So far the beast has made good decisions but Carver worries how Merrill will fare if she has to disagree with the giant horse. She calls the horse Feringdal, and Carver can only hope that the name means 'nice and agreeable' in elvhen.

Further back, still in the shadow of the Fallow Mire, more horses carry Solas, Cassandra, Blackwall and Michelle. Cassandra has left the group and rides her horse hard up the hillside to catch up with Carver. She rides a true warhorse, hardened by Ferelden wars and possibly darkspawn and unfazed even by Merrill's beast. Coming up next to Carver's horse she pulls at the reins and the horse skitters to a halt, dust and pebbles flying up around its hoofs. "Herald Carver, a word?"

Carver still feels like he is about to get scolded whenever Cassandra wants to talk to him like that and he involuntarily straightens his back each time. "Yes, Seeker Cassandra?"

A hint of a smile shows on her face at the little joke between them, her still calling him Herald and him calling her Seeker. Varric watches her, smiling, and he quickly writes something in his notebook.

"I would like to talk about what happened in the Fallow Mire."

"Apart from saving our soldiers? The Avvar think that Andraste is a false prophet and wanted to prove it by killing me," Carver says with a shrug. "They failed, so there's that."

"Yes, and thank the Maker for that. But I never doubted that. You even got the Sky Watcher to ally with us, he could have great influence among the Avvar and gain us more allies." She looks at Carver. "You truly are her Herald, of that I have no doubt."

"Well, I..."

Cassandra raises her hand. "No, you don't have to justify yourself to me or anybody else. You're humble and questioning, those are good traits. I believe what I believe and my belief gives me hope that you will save us all and close the Breach."

"I will give it my best," Carver says. "I hope Cullen and Fiona have worked out some sort of training for the mages and soldiers, we need a good working army where mages and templars support each other."

"Leliana's last raven didn't mention any difficulties." Cassandra has her horse trot next to Carver's, the horses gently sniffing at each other as they climb down the mountain into the green Hinterlands. "I trust Cullen, he is a capable leader and will make sure that you'll have all the support you'll need."

"Does Leliana still give classes for templars and mages?" Carver asks.

"I believe she does," Cassandra says. "Last I heard, she makes them sing phrases to remember."

The thought of Leliana ordering hardened templars and mages to sing, makes Carver chuckle.

Behind them, Varric and Tuffel complain about the steepness of the path. "We'll lose the wagon if we keep going like this," Varric says and stops.

Carver takes another look around. "Scout Harding said we should follow this ridge until we come to a copse of trees, I think we went too far down."

"You have to come up here," Merrill calls down from somewhere above.

Carver strains his neck but he can't see her at this angle. "Wait for us."

"Gladly," comes Dorian's voice, rather dryly. "It's such a delightful view from here."

"There's a corpse here," Merrill says.

"We'll be right there."

Carver's horse, a spunky mare with white and brown patches, hops around as if she is happy to go on a new adventure while Cassandra's horse needs a bit more convincing to turn away from the green pastures right ahead and to climb back up the mountain. It takes even longer to turn the wagon around and Varric has to have a very serious conversation with Tuffel to convince her.

Cassandra watches how Varric lays out his argument to the pony and she smiles like Carver has never seen her smile before. Guiding her horse over to the wagon, she gets ready to dismount but her warhorse nudges Tuffel behind the ear and the pony finally agrees to pull the wagon around.

"Looks like they're best friends, don't you think, Seeker?" Varric grins towards Cassandra as he climbs back on the bench. Cassandra makes an undefined sound in her throat and turns away, spurring her horse on to catch up with Carver's.

As they ride silently up the hill to the barely visible fork in the path they missed before, Cassandra's cheeks are still rosy. She plays with the reins in her hands, lost in thought.

Up ahead, Merrill's giant horse is grazing while she is looking at something on the ground. The area widens and Cassandra's horse comes up to his side. "What did you want to ask me?"

Cassandra startles and blinks at him. "What? Oh, I wanted to speak about the apostate."

"Ah, yes." Carver takes a deep breath, calling upon the memories of the mage who had hidden in the swamps of the Fallow Mire for years it seems and apparently had lost her mind at some point. "She said her name was Widris."

"You were talking to her for a long time..."

"But I still had to kill her in the end." The death of that woman has left a bad taste in his mouth. It was so unnecessary.

Cassandra shakes her head. "It was clear that she was not quite right, what were you trying to achieve talking to her?"

Carver pulls at the reins, stopping his horse and stares at Cassandra. "Are you telling me that I shouldn't have tried to talk to her first?"

Cassandra's mouth turns into a thin, hard line. "I know I sound heartless. But that mage was clearly not to be reasoned with and she was dangerous and you still approached her like that, you didn't even have your sword in your hand."

"Was it that clearly? That woman, Widris, built beacons to control the undead in the swamps, she kept notes, written in cypher, and maybe it was all gibberish but what if it wasn't?" Carver lowers his voice. "She has experimented with magic and veil fire, has anybody done that before? We could have learned something from her, who knows what she could have taught us?"

"But you endangered yourself for — "

"Yes, I tried to talk to her, she was a mage, not a walking bomb," Carver yells out.

"I must admit that it troubles me how trusting you are." Cassandra looks down to her hands, clenched around the soft leather of the reins. "I didn't mean to offend you, I'm responsible for your safety, you are — "

" — our only hope for the Breach, I know." Carver grits his teeth. "Void forbid something happens to your precious Herald of Andraste."

"That's not — "

"I know!" Carver kicks his heels and his horse lurches forward in surprise, galloping past Merrill and Dorian until he comes to the copse of trees Scout Harding promised to be there. He pulls at the reins, bringing his horse to a slow pace and pets her neck. "Sorry, girl, that wasn't very nice of me, was it?"

The horse wiggles its ears and gives a snort.

"Yeah, you're right," Carver mumbles. He isn't sure about what but someone needs to have a grip on things here and it isn't him.

Heavy hoofbeats from Merrill's giant horse come up behind him and he turns around to look at her. Her hair has slipped out of the braid and flies around her head in the changing winds up here on this mountain ridge. Her green coat flutters behind her and she gives him a soft smile.

"Did they send you ahead to set me right again?" he asks, a bite in his voice he didn't mean to let out.

Merrill stops her horse next to him. She looks down her horse's long neck and strokes over the gleaming black fur. "Why would I have to set you right if there's nothing wrong with you?"

"I'm sure Cassandra disaggrees."

"She's just worried. She reminds me of Anders sometimes."

Carver laughs out. "Really? How so?"

"How she believes. She truly believes, with the force of the burning sun. She believes you are the Herald of Andraste, sent by the Maker to save us all." Merrill looks ahead, far out into the Hinterlands stretching out before them. "I miss that sometimes, things being certain like that."

Carver nods. "Yes, me too." He looks over to Merrill. "Do _you_ believe I'm the Herald of Andraste?"

Merrill turns in the saddle to face him with a shy smile. "I don't know if I can answer that question."

"Well, we got that in common."

Merrill absentmindedly braids the mane of the beast. Carver's horse eyes Merrill's horse suspiciously and is careful to keep a healthy distance between them.

"I can tell you what I know," Merrill says. "I know that you are Carver Hawke, that you always try to be good and fair. I know that you became a templar to protect your sisters and your mother. I know that you never believed that mages are evil and that they needed to be locked up but you still joined the templars. I never understood that but I know that you always try to do good."

"I had to — "

"No, let me answer your question. I know that Andraste was a real person, she fought with Shartan against the Tevinter Imperium. I don't know who the Maker was but I know that the creators, our gods, used to walk where we walk today. They were real and they left us, long before Andraste and Shartan died."

Merrill holds up her palm and a light begins to glow in it. She holds her hand over to him, offering the light in her palm and Carver feels his Herald-hand warm. He holds it out to her, palm up and the mark lights up, softly, little tendrils of green light stretching towards Merrill's magic. She looks to him as her magic entwines with his and it touches something primal in him, a connection that he feels in his very breath.

"I know that the mark on your hand is not from this time," she says. "it's not from this side of the veil. It is connected to the Fade, maybe even made there. It's magic of a kind that we don't know anymore. My ancestors probably knew about magic like this, it is old, older than the Tevinter Imperium, maybe older than humans."

"Older than humans?" Carver plays with the light in his palm, twisting and, sending out little sparks. He has gotten pretty good at controlling it. Out of the corner of his eyes he notices that Solas has steered his horse closer.

Merrill sends a spark into the dancing green cloud on his hand and he laughs out as it tickles up his arm. She smiles and closes her fist, extinguishing the magic in her palm. Then her face turns serious. "To answer your question — no, I don't believe you are the Herald of Andraste. Whatever the mark on your hand connects you with, it's much older than Andraste. I just hope..." she sighs and takes his hand in hers, stroking over his knuckles. "I just hope that none of the old gods are playing tricks on us."

"The gods would do that?"

"Yes, our gods were not kind. Only Mythal spoke for us and they killed her."

Carver looks down on her hand holding his. The horses are surprisingly calm, sniffing each other. "When you fail, when you have no hope, who do you turn to?"

"What do you mean?" Merrill looks in his eyes, a shadow crossing over her face.

Carver thinks of Leliana in the throne room, in the future that won't happen. Shooting her last arrows while praying: 'Andraste guide me. Maker, take me to your side.'

"People pray to Andraste for help, for guidance, when things look dire. Who do Dalish turn to?"

Merrill looks ahead towards dark clouds that hang deep over the land ahead. They have already swallowed the sun and the air smells of rain. "Maybe that's why my people failed and lost their freedom. We had no one to give us hope. Only the dreadwolf would help us sometimes but his help always came with a price."

"So we can't ask your gods for help?"

"I think our gods expect us to help ourselves."

"That's harsh," Carver says.

The rest of the group has arrived at the copse and with the wagon rumbling up and coming to a stop, preparations to set up camp begin. A while later, they sit with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea around the campfire, while the tents are airing out the collected moisture of the dreadful Fallow Mire. They exchange a few words and compare minor injuries but silence soon falls around the campfire.

Cassandra hardly says a word and Dorian hurries into his tent as soon as possible. Varric declares that he'll take up first watch on the wagon because he needs to write a few things down and a little while later, Carver and Merrill sit alone at the fire.

Merrill takes Carver's hand and squeezes it. "I don't like it when it is like this."

"Nobody talking and everybody brooding?"

"Yes, it's like having too many Fenrisses around," Merrill says. She digs into her pouch and pulls out a piece of paper and a small vial. Carver feels a chill down his spine when he recognises the shape of it.

"That's a phylactery. Where did you find that?"

"The body back there, where Dorian and I waited for you. It was a templar, he had a letter on him. His name was Mattrin and in the letter it says that the phylactery belonged to Ellendra."

Carver takes the glass vial from her and holds it up the light of the moons. It shines bright red, the blood preserved to never clot. "I think I met an Enchanter named Ellendra at the Crossroads. She told me that she loved a templar."

"He kept the phylactery to find her. But then something must have happened." Merrill angles the letter so that the light from the fire falls on it. The writing is shaky, it looks like the author's hands were trembling. "It says here 'The terrors are with me more often than not.' Do you think he ran out of lyrium?"

Carver looks to his own hands. They don't tremble, not yet, but if he doesn't take the dose in his pocket before morning comes, he won't be spared of that either. No templar can escape this destiny. "Yes, he probably means the withdrawal."

Merrill's fingertip wanders down a few lines. "He felt weak, too weak to withstand demons. He poisoned himself."

"He chose death over possession." Carver stares into the fire and silence stretches between them. He looks at the phylactery in his hand and shoves it into a pocket. "I'll give Ellendra her phylactery back, she should have it."

Merrill doesn't react. She stares into the fire, gnawing at her lip.

"Carver," Merrill says suddenly, startling him. "When you feel too weak, when you fear that demons could possess you, you will talk to me, yes?"

"Yes, of course." He takes her hand in his but she doesn't look at him.

"Promise me." Now she looks at him, uncharacteristically grim. "Promise me to let me help you."

Carver is taken aback by the seriousness of her voice. "I promise. I promise I'll let you help."

"Good." Merrill still holds his hand but she stares into the fire.

Carver looks at her for a long time, the fire crackling in front of them and casting flickering shadows on Merrill's face. "I don't really know what you can do, do I?"

Merrill turns her head to look at him. Her hair falls in front of her face and almost hides her eyes but he can still see them twinkle. "No, you don't."

Carver looks at her, her smile, her bright eyes, so innocently looking. But Merrill isn't the sheltered dalish girl from years ago that tagged along with his sister. That strange girl, who left her clan behind to stare at the buildings in the city and watch people getting robbed with delighted wonderment.

She has become stronger, a bit harder too but she never let go of her joyous nature. Carver knows something about powerful women, he remembers how his older sister adapted to become what the dreadful city expected from her but it changed her, it killed some of the joy inside of her. Merrill never allowed that to happen to her. With all her power, all her abilities, she is still wholly herself, never compromising herself.

Carver's heart makes a tiny jump as he watches her and he smiles. What an amazing girl he has.


	24. Chapter 24

Quote from the Codex:  
 _Even though dwarves have a natural resistance, raw lyrium is dangerous for all but the most experienced of the Mining Caste to handle. Even for dwarves, exposure to the unprocessed mineral can cause deafness or memory loss. For humans and elves, direct contact with lyrium ore produces nausea, blistering of the skin, and dementia. Mages cannot even approach unprocessed lyrium. Doing so is invariably fatal._  
From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi.

* * *

"This is a good day, boss. A very good day!" The Iron Bull lets out a loud belly laugh, one that shakes his whole body. The cause of his joy is currently sweeping over the landscape on leathery wings, burning down mining towers with flames coming from its mouth. A Fereldan Frostback, as the Iron Bull has so helpfully pointed out, a giant dragon with yellow scales and an unfriendly disposition.

"Bull!" Carver yells towards the qunari. "We need tactics, I don't want to have our hides burned."

"Aww, that's taking away all the fun," Bull says, watching the dragon soar through the sky. "You just whack at it until it goes down, no need for tactics."

"Our mages should aim ice storms at its mouth to kill the fire," Cassandra says. "And if we cut deep into the rump, it can't use its wings anymore." Everyone turns to her and stares. She frowns at the sudden attention. "The Pentaghasts have traditionally been dragon hunters."

Varric chuckles. "Lady Seeker, you keep surprising me."

Merrill looks at the dragon gliding over the valley. "Do we _have_ to kill it?"

"Leliana requested dragon blood with the last raven," Carver says. "And going around this valley would take us way off path."

"I just hate killing such a magnificent creature." Merrill frowns at the silhouette of the dragon at the far end of the valley. "She is wonderful."

"You think it's a she?" Bull wonders and squints his one eye, watching the dragon. A fereldan Frostback he had called the yellow monster. "Yeah, at that size, probably a lady."

"Can't we just scare her away?" Merrill asks.

Carver looks to Cassandra, who has her eyebrows raised in a sceptical look. "To my knowledge, that was never the desired outcome of a dragon hunt but it has happened."

"She breathes fire," Carver says gloomily. "What exactly could scare her?"

Merrill holds up the palm of her hand with a small ice storms lazily spinning on it. "We can try to take her fire away."

"Won't that annoy her?" Varric wonders. "Annoying a dragon sounds like a really bad idea."

A wicked smile appears on Merrill's face. "Why don't we find out?"

Carver sighs. "I still don't like our odds for a fight like this. One hit with that tail and we're out of swords and the heads belonging to them."

Dorian steps forward. "I suggest Merrill and I take her fire away and if Varric here would be so kind as to shoot some of his vicious bolts into her rump, I dare say she might fly away."

"I like that plan better than hacking at that tail with my sword," Carver says. He points to a towering rock inside the valley. "Let's take cover there and do it like Dorian said. I also want additional archers shooting her rump." He looks around to see if anybody objects but everyone nods in agreement.

They make their way over to the towering rock in quick progression, when the dragon flies over the other side of the valley. Varric comes up to Carver's side and snickers.

"What?" Carver asks.

"You're still surprised that everyone follows your commands."

"Well, yeah." Carver shrugs. "I'm just the guy with the magic hand."

"Junior, you're so much more."

Carver laughs out. "Barely a templar and leading an army."

"Don't shit on yourself like that." Varric points at Cassandra and the group of inquisition soldiers following her. "Look at the people you travel with. Cassandra said herself that she's used to fighting alone, same goes for the Warden. Ask Dorian how much support at his back he's used to. And then you have our former templars, now suddenly paired to fight with mages when they only knew how to lock them up before. And you got it all to work!"

He turns back to Carver, silencing him with a wave of his hand when Carver wants to object. "You've been traveling and fighting alongside mages since you were a boy, you learned to adapt to various styles of fighting in Kirkwall with your sister, then you got trained to be a templar. If there's anybody better prepared to get this assortment of wildly different people all working together, I don't know who that is."

Carver stares at the dwarf. "Huh."

"You're doing a great job, Junior. Andraste really looked out for us with you." Varric gives him a nod and stomps forward before Carver can say anything.

* * *

The dragon flies away with a shriek, coughing on ice stuck in her mouth, her flapping wings causing a blizzard of dust blowing towards them. She doesn't even bleed, they never got close enough to hurt her.

The Iron Bull looks after her with a pout. "That was disappointing, boss."

"None of us are on fire, I call this a win," Carver retorts.

"Still, this could have been a glorious battle."

"In my experience, battles are never as glorious as the stories make them sound." Carver walks over to the qunari and pats him on the back. "I'm sure we'll get you a dragon fight one day, when we're better prepared."

"I hope so," the Iron Bull says and lumbers over to his Chargers.

"Better prepared?" Varric asks quietly beside Carver.

"Siege weapons. At least."

Varric nods. "Good plan."

The path through the valley brings them back into the Hinterlands, on roads that are uneven and overgrown. Varric and Tuffel struggle to keep the wagon upright as they ride along. Carver hopes to find the Imperial Highway soon, even crumbled and unkempt, the Highway is still more comfortable to travel on than this terrain.

The area turns into a marsh land with lakes and streams dotting the landscape. The ground is often soft and wet and the wagon becomes a problem once more. But not having to lug around tents and cooking utensils is just too convenient to leave the wagon behind. And they would have to listen to Varric complaining about riding a horse again.

Merrill shields her eyes with her hand and squints into the distance. "Remember the widower in Redcliffe?"

Carver, riding by her side, startles out of deep thoughts. Sometimes, in quiet moments like these, he still sees the mark of tranquility on her forehead and dark dread settles on his mind, dragging him into thoughts that he usually doesn't allow himself to mull over. "What?"

Merrill furrows her brows as she looks at him. "The widower who wanted to put flowers on his wife's grave."

Carver stares at her face, at her unmarked forehead, and he bans the dark thoughts from his mind. "Yes, right." He looks around, the sun warming his face, letting the beauty of the landscape raise his spirits. "It should be around here somewhere, shouldn't it?"

Merrill nods and slides off the beast. A few steps away, the ground dips down and large lyrium crystals seem to have grown out of the earth like a frozen bloom of sharp angles, glowing in blue. On the edge of the dip sits a patch of bright blue flowers and Merrill leans down to pick them.

The lyrium out in the open is unnerving, Carver can feel it sing in harmony with the lyrium in his veins and it looks tempting to touch. But he knows how dangerous it is, it has been drilled into him since he was a small boy not to touch lyrium. Once Bethany dared him to put a tiny raw crystal on his fingertip and the resulting blister hurt for weeks.

Merrill stretches to reach an exceptionally big bloom, her foot linked under a root to keep her from falling into the dip, but the root cracks and she squeals as she loses her balance. She stumbles towards the lyrium crystal, the blue flowers still tight in her hand.

"Careful!" Carver cries out, but it's already too late, Merrill braces herself against the crystal with her full hand, her face just a hair's breadth away from it. He jumps off his horse and runs over to her. When he reaches her, she's already pushed herself away from the crystal and Carver pulls her back up.

"I'm fine," she says, holding up her hands "Gloves. I'm fine, gloves, I have gloves." She stares at her hands with wide eyes, all color having left her face.

"Maker's fart," Carver says and falls to his knees besides her to pull her into his arms.

"Creators," Merrill sighs.

Carver takes a deep breath to calm himself down. "You're a mage, love, this shit can kill you, can you not do that, please?"

"You're right, yes, you're right." Merrill takes a deep breath. "I'll be more careful. The flowers were so pretty."

"I'm sure the widower would be just as happy with other flowers."

Merrill stares at the blue flowers in her hand. "Lyrium is not supposed to do that, growing out of the ground like that."

"I don't think it did before the Breach," Carver says. "Father told me of lyrium veins growing underground and how he saw them in the Deep Roads. When we left Lothering, we didn't have lyrium popping out of the ground."

"I don't understand how the Breach can cause lyrium to come to the surface like this." Merrill squints at the crystal. "We should ask a dwarf."

Carver nods. "I don't think Varric knows these things."

"But he may know someone who does."

Carver chews on his lower lip, thinking this over. With everything going on, it starts to feel like behind every corner there is a new problem for him to bash his head against. "Can I... can you make this your thing? Researching lyrium?"

Merrill lays her head to the side and smiles at him. "I thought I would research magic."

"Can you do both? Cause I feel like my head is going to explode if I think any more about all this." Carver rubs his temples, trying to block out the insistent song from the lyrium crystals.

Merrill puts her hand on his neck, applying soft pressure. "Sure, vhenan, I'll research why the lyrium acts this way. And how your magic reacts." She takes his Herald-hand and strokes her thumb over the cut in his palm, visible through a cut-out in his glove. "With the next rift you close, I want to try if I can add my magic to your power."

"Oh, good idea." Carver leans forward and presses a kiss on Merrill's head. "I'm so glad you're here, love."

Merrill smiles at him. "Me too, vhenan."

Her hand at the back of his neck spreads warmth. The pressure in his head lifts and the song of the lyrium doesn't grate in his mind anymore.

Merrill's horse has wandered off to a tasty bushel of grass but turns around and strolls back when she whistles. The beast eyes the lyrium crystals with suspicion but she steps close enough for Merrill to take her reins.

"Thank you, lethallan," she says to the horse as she pulls herself back up. Carver gets on his own horse and steers it next to Merrill's. The horses have developed a quiet respect for each other but Carver's mare is still wary of the giant beast.

"That little hill, we should look there," Merrill says. "My people like to bury their loved ones on top of mountains, a stupid tradition if you ask me."

The hill is hardly a mountain but in this area it is the highest elevation and they indeed find a graveyard on top of it. Flowers bloom between rocks and broken arches and a few trees are gently swaying, their new leaves bright green. They find the grave of the widower's wife and clean it. Merrill says a few dalish words and Carver puts the flowers on top of the simple stone with the inscription.

"I'm sure that will make him very happy," Merrill says. "This is a nice place." She gets up and inspects another gravestone, wiping moss from the stone.

Merrill wanders from one place to the next, tracing the lines of engravings and inscriptions on simple rocks and elaborate gravestones. Solas follows her around, kneeling down sometimes to read inscriptions that Merrill has cleaned.

"Our people have used this place to bury their dead for a long time," Merrill says, letting a spell glitter along an inscription.

"Your people," Solas says with a harsh bite in his voice. "My people... it was different." He abruptly turns around and goes to the edge of the hill, halfway hidden behind a blooming tree.

"What was that about?" Carver asks, carefully stepping around the old and overgrown graves.

Merrill looks toward where Solas has disappeared. "He doesn't see himself as one of the dalish."

"He's definitely not a city-elf either."

Merrill nods. "Too proud, too sure of himself."

"Well, yes." That assessment only furthers the unease he feels whenever he starts thinking about how the elves are treated.

"He is a mystery," Merrill says. "When you introduced me to Cassandra, she was suspicious of me, I know she asked Varric about me. Why isn't she suspicious of him?"

"You know what? I've been asking myself that question." Carver squints at the trees that seem to have swallowed up Solas. "He was there from the beginning, he apparently saved my life when the mark was trying to kill me."

Merrill smiles at him. "For that I'm forever grateful, ma vhenan." She looks back to where Solas is almost not visible. "But I wonder what he really knows."

Carver let's himself get lost in her smile for a moment, taking a deep, calming breath. "Do you think you could find out? Befriend him, hear what he knows?"

"I'm not a good liar."

"I know, I don't want you to lie. But you're a scholar and I think he sees himself as one too. You probably have a lot you both could talk about."

Merrill smiles brightly up to him. "Yes, I could do that." She looks at the flowers in her hand and turns them around. "I'm a scholar, yes."

"You are," Carver assures her. "And you're an incredible mage and I would like to hear what you think about Solas' magic."

"It's different."

Carver nods. "Bull said so too. He said it's unlike anything he's ever seen and Solas said it's because he taught himself."

"Wouldn't he fumble more then? He doesn't fumble, he's very precise," Merrill says. "I'll watch him for you but I have to watch you too."

Carver leans down for a kiss but an alarming call from Solas interrupts him. Solas waves from his vantage point, now suddenly a stark silhouette against the bright sky. "A procession of people is coming towards us. They are armed."

"Under what banner?" Cassandra asks, hurrying over to Solas' position.

"Unclear, I see a templar banner but I also see red banners with no symbols."

Carver and Merrill run up to the trees and squint out towards the group of people walking towards them. Carver can make out templar armor on about twenty men and women but there's another group of people walking alongside them without bulky armor.

"Those aren't banners," Merrill says. "Those are the sails of aravels."

"Aravels?" Cassandra asks.

"My people never stay long in one place," Merrill says easily, as if she speaks about a vacation and not years of fleeing from templars. "The aravels are our wagons for storage and transport. Our friends, the halla, pull them."

Solas frowns. "Easy to escape your pursuers if all your belongings fit into a small wagon."

Cassandra looks uncomfortably from one to the other and focuses on the group of people coming towards them again. "But these dalish seem to travel with the templars."

"Are you sure they're not prisoners?" Solas snarls at her.

Merrill hums softly and shakes her head. "They carry their weapons freely, I see bows, swords and staves."

"Mages?" Cassandra says, her brows drawn into a frown. "Dalish only have one mage per clan."

Merrill laughs out. "Who told you that?"

"That's — "

Before Cassandra can finish, alarmed shouts from the rest of their own troop call them back.

"Bears! Bears!"

At the same time, the hairs on Carver's neck rise up and the mark begins to spark. "There's a rift opening nearby."

"Oh no," Cassandra says.

"We have to separate," Carver calls out. "Cassandra, Solas, Merrill, Blackwall to me. The rest, fight the bears, don't let them get too close."

Carver runs, the mark leading him to the rift on the other side of the hill. This rift feels different, new, not quite connected to the real world yet and the demons rising from the ground seem to be more disoriented than others. Solas and Merrill stun and freeze them from afar and Carver, with Cassandra and Blackwall on either side of him, cut them down quickly.

As Carver raises his Herald-hand to close the rift, Merrill puts her hand on his arm.

"Let me try something."

The rift crystal keeps crackling above them, the mark on his hand reacting to it with bursts of green light. He forms the light into a steady glow, bright and warm. The lyrium hunger gnaws somewhere in the back of his mind but without a fresh dose circulating in his veins, the mark feels good, warm and malleable.

"Do your rift magic," Merrill says and holds her hand parallel to his. Her hand lights up with light that turns from yellow to blue. It stretches up towards the golden rope from Carver's hand and as he pours his own life force into it, Merrill's blue light wraps around it. The rope of light begins to hum in harmony with himself, feeding energy back into him, strengthening the force he pours into the rift. In a blink of an eye, the crystal shrinks, cracks, and collapses in on itself.

Carver flexes his hand, tasting after the ripple of Merrill's magic he can still feel in his hand. "That was incredible," he says, letting the mark in his palm glow. "It really made it stronger."

"Now imagine hundreds of mages doing that," Merrill says with bright eyes. "The power you'll have!"

"Yes!" Carver shouts. "This could really work!" Laughter bubbles up inside of him, bursting out of him in strange relief. Finally, things look like they could work out in the end.

"Herald Carver," Cassandra calls to him. "The other group has joined our people in fighting the bears."

Carver watches the light in his Herald-hand retreat and closes his fist. He looks over to Cassandra. "Well, that makes them new best friends for now. Let's greet them and see what they want."

Varric holds his crossbow over his shoulder, not quite ready for attack, put quickly in a pinch. "You think they want something?"

"Don't they always?"

"Maybe they just want to look at your hand."

Carver flexes his Herald-hand again. It feels warm and calm, unlike the lyrium hunger beginning to burn in his head. Pearls of sweat sit on his forehead and every sound rings loud in his head. He clenches his teeth and focuses on the warm wind on his face.

A dark skinned man in templar armor greets Carver with a respectful bow. "Herald of Andraste. It's an honor to meet you. My name is Delrin Barris, formerly of the templar order."

"From one former templar to another, Ser Barris, the honor is mine." Carver hits his right fist against his chest in the traditional templar greeting. "What brings you here into these parts?"

"You, if I may be so frank. Me and my men are, well, have been under the command of Seeker Lucius Corin at Therinfald Rebound."

Cassandra steps forward, greeting Barris with a nod of her head. "Seeker Lucius is in Therinfald Rebound? Isn't that in the Brecilian Forest?"

"It is indeed," Barris says.

"Right under the nose of Queen Anora," Cassandra says quietly.

"I cannot explain his motives, for the Seeker..." Barris sighs and looks back from where they had come. "Seeker Lucius is not what he seems, not anymore. Either a demon took possession of him or a demon took on his form, either way, we fled when he began corrupting us."

"Seeker Lucius, a demon?" Cassandra stares at Barris with her mouth open.

Barris nods. "Yes, Seeker. He made us take red lyrium, he started with my officers and they attacked us to force the red lyrium on us."

"Damn," Varric says quietly and turns away.

"How many of you could flee?"

"We were thirty in the beginning." Barris hangs his head. "There's only 18 of us left." He points to the group of templars, who look like they haven't had a good night's sleep in a while.

Carver looks from them to the other large group, obviously dalish warriors and hunters, standing proudly in the sun. "You're travelling with dalish."

Barris waves two dalish over, a man and a woman. "May I introduce Mariana of clan Amerillan and Shenn of clan Lavellan. Mariana is the Keeper of clan Amerillan and Shenn is a visitor from the Free Marches. They helped us when we were lost in the forest."

Carver leans over to Merrill and whispers, "What do I say to them?"

"Andaran atish'an," Merrill whispers back.

Carver straightens again and says, "Andaran atishaan. Ehm, good to meet you," he adds with a shrug.

The elven woman steps forward. She is older, albeit still beautiful and her long black hair shows no sign of greying. Her smile is warm and her brown eyes dart over everyone, as if she maps every face to memory.

"Carver Hawke," she says, as her eyes end up on him. "The one they call the Herald of Andraste."

"You don't have to call me that."

Keeper Mariana laughs quietly. "Yes, I heard that. That made me curious, I wanted to meet the saviour who doesn't want to be called one."

Merrill steps forward and inclines her head towards Keeper Mariana. "Andaran atish'an, I'm Merrill."

Mariana takes a quick step over to Merrill and takes her hand. "Merrill of clan Alerion and Sabrae and Hawke." She glances over to Carver and winks. "I was delighted to hear that you're still with clan Hawke, even if it's another Hawke." She laughs, her voice deep and warm. "That was quite confusing at first."

"You seem to know a lot about us," Carver wonders, taking a step to Merrill's side.

"Yes, I do," the Keeper says and turns back to Merrill. "I have met you, you might not remember. I was there when Tamlen was lost in the ruins... ir abelas, I know this is not a good memory."

A dark expression passes over Merrill's face. "My clan left the forest soon after, we took a ship to the Free Marches."

"I know, I heard a few things. I was furious to hear that Clan Sabrae exiled you."

"It was better that way," Merrill says with determination. She lays her head to the side and studies Mariana's face. "Clan Amerillan has never left the Brecilian Forest."

The elven woman lets go of Merrill's hand and smiles again. "Not quite never but it has been a long time. You know how beautiful it is and how much of our history is there. We just didn't want to leave it all."

Carver doesn't buy that excuse for a second. There's a mystery about this woman that he can't quite put his finger on. "Why did you leave now?"

The Keeper turns her gaze back to him. Her eyes are like deep dark pools and it feels like she sees into the farthest depth of his soul. The silence stretches between them and when at last she speaks, Carver isn't sure how much time has passed.

"Clan Amerillan has a history with the Inquisition of old. When we heard that a new Inquisition has been founded, we saw it as our duty to get involved and meet this new Inquisition." She smiles and it hides as much as an orlesian mask. "We wanted to meet _you_ especially, the survivor."

Cassandra has a deep frown on her forehead as she looks at the elven woman. "What kind of history is that?"

Mariana turns her smile towards Cassandra. "Oh, it's a rather long story, I'd prefer to tell it some other time in more comfortable surroundings."

Solas appears from a shadow, frowning at Mariana. "After clinging to meaningless history for so long you finally leave your hiding place, da'len?"

"Oh, I'm hardly a child, aravalin," Mariana says with steel in her voice. "And who might you be?"

Solas holds her gaze for a long minute and then his face softens and he inclines his head with a gentle smile. "My name is Solas and I'm not of any clan you know. I have joined the Inquisition to help with the unusual magic."

Mariana also inclines her head and the look exchanged between them seems to hold a full conversation. "I look forward to have tea with you, if the Inquisition is willing to let us join."

"You want to come with us to Haven?" Carver asks.

"The Breach, as you call it, threatens the dalish just as it threatens everyone else. We would like to do our part. Unless..." Mariana takes a look around. "Unless you don't accept dalish or more mages in your company."

"That won't be a problem," Carver hurries to say. "But your people will have to work with humans, dwarves, qunari, with former templars and people with other questionable backgrounds."

"It might take some getting used to but we are adaptable." She looks over to Barris' group of templars. "And you have templars working with mages, not watch over them? That will be interesting."

"That it is," Carver says and turns to Barris. "I guess I have to say that to you too, in the inquisition, elves, dwarves, qunari, and humans work together. And templars are not in command of mages, mages and templars work together. Can you and your templars accept that?"

Barris frowns and nods. "We have heard about this before, that the inquisition is — "

"Traitor!" The templar next to Barris pulls his sword and rushes to Carver. Carver has his own sword up just in time to deflect the hit. Merrill lights up with a spell and the templar turns to her. He casts a templar spell and it stops Merrill's ice storm right between them but Carver sees the opening and strikes the templar with his sword, cutting his hand off. His templar spell fails and another ice spell freezes him mid movement.

For a moment nobody moves. The templar stands frozen, his eyes wide and red behind his helmet. Red light wavers around him and dread pools in Carver's stomach as he remembers the red light around his friends in the bad future. "He's been poisoned by red lyrium."

"But that can't be," Barris calls out. "We refused to take it."

"But he did take it, don't you see it? Feel it?" The red lyrium grates in Carver's head like a melody played on untuned instruments.

"Andraste have mercy," Barris says, taking a step back from the frozen templar.

Carver turns to Merrill. "Can you unfreeze his head so that I can talk to him?"

Merrill nods and plays out a delicate pattern with her fingers. The ice around the head and shoulders of the templar melts away but his arms stay trapped in ice. The stump, where Carver cut off his hand sticks out of the ice, blood hanging from it in frozen drops.

"Why are you here?" Carver asks.

"To kill you, the traitor, the false prophet, betraying her holiness — "

"Yeah, yeah. What are you doing here, who gave you the red lyrium?"

"Only the strongest can take the Red. I'm strong like him, like Samson. He opened my eyes, he showed me what true power is. I'm fulfilling the will of the Elder One, killing the traitor and his followers, culling the weakness, the disease that poisons the true — "

"Andraste's arse, make him shut up." Carver's headache gets worse the longer the red song grates in his mind. The templar keeps on yelling until Merrill stuffs his mouth with ice with a flick of her hand.

"Did he say Samson?" Varric asks quietly from the back. "Samson of Kirkwall?"

"He is indeed from Kirkwall," Barris says. "He said he used to be under the command of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. He's the commanding general, serving the Elder One. He..." Barris sighs. "He's been taking the Red for a long time and it made him very powerful and unlike with others, his mind stayed sharp."

"Oh, by Andraste's dirty knickers," Varric mumbles. "Cullen is going to have a fit."

With a deafening crack, the ice around the red templar bursts apart and he jumps on Carver with a cry, holding a red glowing vial in his hand. Carver trips, falls backwards and barely manages to hold the attacker away from his face as the templar pulls the stopper from the vial with his teeth to pour it into Carver's mouth. Three spells and four swords hit him at the same time and he drops dead in a charred and frozen heap next to Carver.

"Maker's fucking fart!" Carver yells as he scrambles to get up again.

Barris, Cassandra and two templars pull their swords from the smoking remains, while Dorian, Merrill and Solas flex their fingers to release excess energy.

Cassandra stares at the pile of charred flesh, that still has a disturbing red glow around it. "The red lyrium made him powerful enough to break the ice spell. I can see how tempting the red lyrium must be."

Carver snorts. "And he tried to give it to me, how nice of him." He turns to Barris. "So, how many more friends of Samson can I expect in your group?"

"None, I swear on my life," Barris says, pressing his fist against his chest. "He was new, a recent recruit. I can vouch for my remaining men and women, I've known them for years."

"We'll see, I guess." Carver takes a deep breath and turns to his companions. "He said 'the Elder One'."

Cassandra nods, her face pale. "Yes, just like you told us from the bad future."

"The bad future?" Barris asks.

Carver shakes his head. "Long story. Let's just say, this isn't the first time I heard of the Elder One and it's not a good memory." He picks up his sword and shield and turns to the templars and dalish watching him. "Welcome to the Inquisition. We got problems ahead you won't believe."

* * *

 _Elven phrases:_

 _Andaran atish'an: Enter this place in peace. A formal elven greeting. (Carver doesn't quite have the pronunciation down and says Andaran atiemshaan/em)_

 _Ir abelas: I am sorry._

 _da'len: child_

 _aravalin: traveller (I made that one up)_


End file.
